


The House at Row's Edge

by Seynde (Littorella)



Series: Convergence [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Memory Charms, Philosophy, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-02-18 04:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 38,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13092438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littorella/pseuds/Seynde
Summary: After mysteriously inheriting a decrepit property on Spinner's End, Hermione begins to discover she's suffered one nasty Obliviate from its previous owner.





	1. The Key

 

_14 Spinner's End._

The little note was roughly scrawled in familiar, spiky script in fading ink. The writing was grey, as if the ink bottle had unexpectedly run out and the author added water in an attempt to prolong its last drops. There were no other words on the note, no pleasantries, no instructions, no explanation, just a single line written hurriedly in thinning black.

Hermione held it tightly between her fingers, glancing down again and again to check for the house number. It was a simple number, one that she should have been able to remember after a single look, but somehow it continually eluded her memory. When she found number 14, a house which was identical to all the other little connected brick boxes on the street, she stood at the black door and hesitated.

What would she find here? Pleasant surprises? Disappointments? Terrifying dangers?

Could she even find enough courage to walk through a stranger's home?

Reaching into the Ministry-issued envelope in her bag, she pulled out an iron skeleton key. the key's grooves were dark with age and oxidation, giving the impression that it opened the way to a dark dungeon. Perhaps it was not the key, but rather her memory of the man that led her to believe such a thing was behind the door. Either way, she felt strangely terrified and altogether undeserving of this gift from her deceased professor. In fact, she was still barely certain that he was really dead despite having seen him lying in a wooden box.

Snape's will had not been officially submitted, but the Ministry found an incomplete document in his desk and processed it anyway. Much to the shock of many curious wizards, it contained only one stipulation. Everything he owned would pass into the hands of Hermione Granger, a girl he had no connection to at all. No connection and no goodwill.

People gossiped about the matter; they said horrible, untrue things, insinuating the crass and the impossible. Hermione's stomach knotted up in anger every time she heard those hushed mutterings behind her back. They whispered that Severus Snape had been a  _deeply_  disturbed man, a deviant who took advantage of an innocent young student. And as if they'd expected the worst of him and suspected all along, surprise was the one thing lacking in their tones. They all shook their heads and sighed in resignation like pedestrians watching a train wreck they knew to be inevitable.

But it was laughable for anyone who knew her, or knew him, to think that she had anything to do with such an unpleasant man—a brave man, she grudgingly admitted, but unpleasant nonetheless. She had no memory of ever even being in his presence without a room full of fellow students. Hermione vehemently denied the rumors, yet people still gave her looks that were a mixture of deep pity and disgust no matter how many times she tried. It made her blood pressure rise to unhealthy levels to see that anyone thought of her as a helpless victim, easily manipulated and taken advantage of.

The trouble was that no one, not even her, could fathom why he would leave her his life possessions. She could not think of any legitimate reasons to refute the allegations, but Hermione liked to think that there was more to the story. Perhaps there was something there that he'd wanted someone of a logical mind to discover. And she wouldn't blame him for wanting such a thing, but she suspected that the more likely answer was that Snape had no one left in this world. He'd probably been appalled at the thought of leaving his property to the Ministry of Magic and merely pulled her name out of hat.

The little house on Spinner's End was extraordinarily unassuming, sporting dingy brick and black rain trails under the windows. The house number bore striking resemblance to the patina of the house key, grimy and metallic. It precariously hung to the door on crooked nails. When Hermione touched the aging paint of the wooden door frame, it crackle under her fingers and fell to the ground in flakes.

So this was where the fearsome professor had lived, a perfectly ordinary house. She couldn't understand why, but she felt it was rather fitting, as though the image was always in the back of her mind that he was a very normal person outside of school and spent his time in a place like this.

The lock gave little resistance toward its key, resounding a thin racking click when Hermione pushed it forward. Turning the key was another matter altogether. Blackening metal refused to move easily, and a little magic had to be applied to grease the screeching mechanical process. In all honesty, the young witch was very surprised that Snape's house was locked by something as simple as a metal key. She'd expected the entry to be full of wards and harmful hexes. Perhaps the magic had died with the wizard.

A loud jamming thump signaled the bolt unlocked. A number of subsequent clicks crawled up the door frame—magical locks. Once they were silent, Hermione pushed the door forward with tentative hands. The creaking from hinges vibrating through her arm as the door opened slightly. She stopped.

Darkness was beyond, and the witch was unsure if she'd actually chalked up enough courage to cross the threshold. Pulling the key from its hole, she grasped it tightly in her palm.

There was a strange texture to it that she hadn't noticed before; a distinct ridging of the teeth that felt familiar, like a long forgotten childhood toy. Hermione ran her thumb down the large raised-squares pattern. It was an exercise that spoke of repetition, of previous encounters. Again and again, she felt the message of lines and spaces that the key drew on her thumb.

She suddenly realized that she knew the message well. The act brought her back to a fuzzy moment of sitting in his office, playing with the key. When had she ever visited his office? It must have been an illusion cooked up by her anxious mind, she reasoned. But the jars of strange floating ingredients lining his shelves, the echo of water trickling inside the walls, the way he seemed to melt into the room as if they and him were one and the same; it was far too real to be an illusion. The more times Hermione ran her finger across the key, the clearer it became.

In fact, a strange and utterly forgotten conversation with her professor began to take shape in her head. The deep lines of his scowl were becoming ever more true.

She stepped into the dreary, dusty entry way.

 _"That would be foolish and highly inappropriate to consider, Miss Granger."_   She heard his low voice droning in the distance.

The sound was a stolen thought slowly crawling back into her mind.

Hermione suddenly found that maybe she'd known him after all.


	2. The Voice

Spooked, Hermione returned home after only a quick assessment through the house. On the way back to the flat she shared with Luna, she continued to play with the key, hoping to gain some clarity into that strange memory, but no details would present themselves. All she recalled was the thought of him sitting in his office, leaning casually back in his chair, quietly despising yet tolerant of her presence.

At dinner, she glanced across their small table at Luna. The other girl was quietly lost in thought as she pushed her peas around.

"Luna, what do you think I ought to do?"

"Oh, doing is better than thinking!" Luna snapped out of her reverie with a dreamy smile. Never one to shy from eye contact, her bright eyes bore straight into Hermione's, causing her flatmate to look down at her plate uncomfortably.

Hermione replied softly, "The house, Snape's house. Have you been listening?"

"Yes, it sounds lovely."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's very far from lovely, and I don't really want it."

"Why not? It seems perfectly Wizarding," Luna replied, despite not having heard any of Hermione's description about it except a slightly fading expansion charm in basement.

"It's creepy," Hermione stated matter-of-factly.

"Oh," the blonde witch pushed her peas into a mound and toppled the pyramid.

"I don't know what to do about it. I don't want it. It's dreadful and old, and I don't like what people say about it—about him, about me—all untrue, mind you. It's really quite a terrible place. I can't decide if the house made him horrible or if he made the house horrible. What do you think I ought to do?"

"Um..." Luna pondered the question like it was a great philosophical dilemma then asked eagerly, "You could live in it? That is what houses are for."

Hermione stared at Luna impatiently. She'd learned slowly to not get angry at Luna's poor ability to read the moment, but that didn't mean Hermione had gotten used to them. Far from it. "Have you been listening at all? No, I do not want to live in it," she snapped.

"You could sell it."

"Yes, I've thought about it." Hermione spoke fast, like she'd completely considered the idea already and had just been waiting for someone else to agree with her. "But it's not really in a good location, probably wouldn't fetch much. I mean, the house is poorly furnished and falling apart at the edges. There are a lot of books, so many books! Some of them could be valuable, but I'm thinking those can be donated to Hogwarts to rebuild the library, seeing as some of it was destroyed and all—"

"Hermione," Luna interrupted gently, "I think you've already decided."

"But—it wouldn't fetch much. People won't want to buy Severus Snape's house. And it seems so disrespectful!"

"Then fix it up," she suggested as the peas were carefully stacked up again. "You can clean out all the Snape-ness and sell it to Muggles. They won't know who he was."

"Muggles, perhaps. The proceeds can go to starting a civil rights organization, to provide non-wizarding beings representation in court. Or maybe for lobbying new legislation. Yes, that'll be good press. Fallen war hero funding justice. I can almost hear Rita Skeeter spewing it out in that awful column of hers," Hermione muttered to herself, waving her fork about.

"Do you think of him?"

"Ron?"

"No, Snape."

Hermione's shoulders slacked uncomfortably as the inexplicable memory dredged itself up again. "I wouldn't say."

Luna seemed to be fishing for something. She'd never mentioned Snape until that moment. In fact, Luna had been the only one who never gave any indication she found the idea of her unusual inheritance suspicious.

"Not even when you were in the house?" Luna pressed on.

"No, I don't" Hermione replied slowly, not liking where the line of questioning was about to go. She cut Luna off before she could ask more, "I don't appreciate you trying to insinuate that I wasn't telling the truth when I said I didn't know him at all."

"Well!" the other girl smiled widely and slammed her hands down on the table. Her fork clattered against the plate from the sudden jolt. "How about those books, eh?," she asked in a slow and slightly raised voice, "any good ones?"

Hermione remained silent, unsettled by what had just exchanged. She stared at Luna and shook her head slowly. Trying to divert the conversation elsewhere, Hermione pushed the thought away. She could not admit to herself that she was terrified by Luna's questions. The image of Snape in his office came back to her. It didn't seem nefarious.

.

.

The next morning, Hermione stuffed what seemed to be an infinite number of boxes into her expanded purse. She donned an old shirt which sported a large Chudley Cannons logo. It was probably the first time she'd worn it since she'd unwrapped the unfortunate Christmas gift from Ron. Apparating in a hurry and clutching her bag of boxes, Hermione felt her heart pounding excitedly. Books! This was going to be a great endeavor.

Instead of arriving at the house's door, she found she'd mistaken the address and was three streets over at Foxglove Lane 14 instead. Mildly annoyed at her own lack of navigating ability, Hermione tried again. This time, she appeared directly in front the door, nose inches away from the metal numbers. Stumbling back and fidgeting with the key, she made an ungraceful entrance. Clutching the key tightly, she hoped to draw strength from its familiarity.

The sitting room was dark and smelled of stall, recycled air with a fine layer of dust covering the wood floor and tables. There was a large shoulder height pile of papers and random boxes of items precariously stacked in a leaning tower in the hallway. Circles of fresh footprints in the dust surrounded the collection which looked ready to topple over at any moment. Things collected from his office at Hogwarts, no doubt.

Hermione shut the front door behind her and was engulfed in curtained darkness. For a moment, she felt afraid.  _It's just a house!_

Opening the heavy curtains with a flick of her wand, she forced light into the drab room and hall. Snape had been an unusually neat man who'd aligned all the furniture in perfect right angles against each other. There was a very crisp look about the room despite the furniture being ragged and mismatched. It spoke of deliberation and thought. What gripped Hermione more than his order was the lifelessness of the house. There was an empty glass with a ring of evaporated crust on the coffee table, unlaced shoes by the door, a quill by the window. They stood frozen and eager as if anticipating an owner who was only momentarily delayed. Everything in the house seemed to be wasting away as they waited with bated breath for the moment he would emerge from the door.

But he would never be back, and a certain pitiful staleness permeated underneath the dust. Newpapers sat on the far end table, perfectly stacked and squared. Hermione ran her fingers across the top and felt grit beneath her skin. January 1998 was the date of the topmost page. She wondered if he'd returned since.

Most likely not.

A single potted plant sat on a wiry stand by the curtain. She'd missed it before, but it sat behind the long curtains where it could see the smallest bit of light. To her surprise, it was still alive, probably from a self watering charm. Hermione gave a little sigh of determination and pulled her hair up. She was ready to clean.

There was much to be done: items to be packed, surfaces to be wiped down, floors to be swept. The stack in the hall would have to be packed up first, as it was quite an obstruction, followed by the books which lined practically every inch of the walls, including the closet doors. Those would be a trial as she would have to consciously force herself to not become trapped by her inevitable desire to read them. Pulling a few boxes from her purse, she went to work on the papers. Snape had been meticulous about writing his thoughts, it seemed, with comments written all over the margins of his parchment. Hermione took the top page and read his annotations to his own words.  _"Idiot children didn't fare well. A few fainted. Perhaps not this lesson in the future."_  She sighed as she put it away.

Stack after stack of parchment, she tried to not read his cramped writing as she neatly stuffed them into boxes by category. Sometimes there were a few notes which made her laugh, and she stopped to enjoy his quips. Absently, she flipped through the pages and wondered if there would be anything written by her that he'd kept. To her disappointment, there didn't seem to be any.

Teaching notes, student's old essays and exams he'd failed to return, and other miscellaneous documents slowly disappeared from the floor as the morning passed. Once Hermione reached the last stragglers, she decided she would take a break once they were processed. Picking up the stray pieces of parchment, she sorted them: Hogwarts contract, Ministry memo, some unknown letter.

When she reached the letter, she stopped.

.

_Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers Summer Apprenticeship_  
_Applicant: Hermione J. Granger_  
_Date: 30.10.1996_

_Dear Professor Snape,_  
_Your letter of recommendation has been received..._

_.  
_

Her application? In the haze of everything, she'd all but forgotten that she'd applied. She'd been so jealous of Harry's potions cheating that she applied out of some absurd desperation to best him. Frantically, she skimmed the page and felt it all come back to her. She'd gone to see Snape, to ask for a recommendation. He had been reluctant, but agreed to write her one. Hermione set the letter aside and found a draft of the recommendation under it. Her pulse quickened from the mischief of accessing privileged words.

She gazed intently at his slanted script and began to read word by word. Hermione sat and leaned against the bookcase to settle in for the long read.

.

_…Miss Granger is a highly gifted witch who would bring unmatched enthusiasm and ability to the apprenticeship program. In all my years as a Potions Master, I have rarely had the pleasure to teach a student as bright and eager as Miss Granger..._

_._

Inexplicably, she felt her eyes watering. He'd been so kind. There were many instances where he'd struck out back handed compliments and replaced words like " _overzealous_ " and " _show off_ ". Hermione giggled at his original choices for words. Despite all the biting comments spoken to her face, he'd written her an incredibly flattering letter. Hermione sniffed and placed the letter in her purse, drawing out more boxes in the process.

She felt guilty of being so dismissive and misjudging of her professor, complaining his house was creepy and valueless. How could she have been so cruel? Perhaps he'd chosen her out of respect.

As she had promised herself, Hermione went to the kitchen for some water after she'd tucked all the paper away. Looking through the cabinets, she found an old black mug hidden among some chipped old dishes. Holding the mug under the tap, she turned the water on. The water ran slightly brown from disuse. Hermione dumped the offensive fluid out and cleaned the cup with her wand, filling it with conjured water. This new water tasted no better than the faucet looked: metallic and unexpectedly rancid.

Disgusted, the witch set the mug aside and returned to the sitting room. So much for a break. She shrunk the packed up boxes and set them on the coffee table to be the beginnings of a pyramid of her professor's possessions. A few small boxes still scattered around the doorway were next on the agenda. She opened the first, tugging roughly at its flaps. Her hand pressed against carefully folded fabric as she rummaged through the contents hastily. It was all black and difficult to identify.

" _Lumos_ ," she whispered, lighting up the doorway with eery, blue wandlight.

Hermione suddenly flinched away from the box, feeling like she'd suddenly violated his privacy. The box was full of his teaching robes. Her gaze traced the carefully tailored shoulder seams and felt him towering over her, stiff and imposing. She unconsciously glanced over her shoulder, fearful of him appearing there scowling at her, nostrils flared and livid.

Frantic, she quickly levitated the boxes away from the door and up the stairs. She left them sitting at the top of the steps, not wanting to personally enter the private areas of the house. They would have to remain there until she felt ready.

Once her breathing had calmed, Hermione summoned a broom. A crooked old thing flew out from the cupboard in a cloud of dust. She directed the tattered old broom to sweep the dust bunnies and odd bits around the doorway while sitting on the couch. Hard bristles scraped against the wooden floor, generating a constant shuffling sound. Hermione was acutely aware that this was not her house as she sat listening to the rhythmic noise.

But it was good to have something to break the silence. Soon, she animated some washcloths to clear grime from the windows as well as a few dusters. Together, all the equipment made a chorus of soothing buzzes and squeaks. Motion seemed to breath some life into the house, and she was glad.

In the midst of the bustle, she seemed to catch a voice. Thinking it was a neighbor, she ran to the front window and glanced toward the door. There was no one outside; everyone was hiding in their homes from the humid outdoors. Hermione frowned; she could have sworn there was someone speaking. Giving the outside one last look, she let it go, walls were often thin between these old houses after all.

Standing in the middle of the room, she began to levitate books from the shelves into boxes based on subject matter. Many of the volumes were related to the Dark Arts, and Hermione shuddered at some of their titles. Hogwarts' restricted section will certainly be well stocked. Midway through the second shelf, she heard the voice again. Stopping all the cleaning, she tried to listen. The muffled words left with the noise.

"Who's there?" she asked to the air. Everything was still.

When she resumed the noisy cleaning, the whispers returned. It spoke continuously; Hermione thought it sounded like calling. She strained to make out what it said, but the more she tried, the less she heard. Again, she stopped the objects and only met silence.

"Are you a ghost?" she asked tentatively. The house settled into its death once more.

Hermione shook her head and animated the items. No sense in being crazy, she thought fiercely. The voice returned, and her strong face fell. Hermione moved all around the room, listening for the sound and not the words. The window seemed to be the direction that yielded the best results. She stood with her back toward the window, wand drawn, scanning the room for any apparitions. Just a step before touching the glass, she recognized the murmur.

_"Hermione. Hermione."_

Breath caught in her lungs, Hermione stumbled back, tripping over the unsteady plant stand. The heavy clay pot tumbled to the ground in a deafening crash. The orange vessel shattered into several pieces; its precious soil spilled across the floor, green leaves brittle and broken. She stopped all the cleaning charms immediately. Rags, broom, and dusters all fell to the floor simultaneously.

Distraught, Hermione bent down to examine the mess. The plant had been a fern, most of its delicate fronds withered from neglect, crumbling to a million pieces as soon as she laid a finger on them. Picking away the dead stalks, she cleaned the remaining soft core. Perhaps the fern could still be saved; she set it aside. As she uttered "reparo" on the broken pot and watched the soil and pieces fly back together, a bizarre and foreign thought invaded her mind.

She'd done this exact motion before. This exact plant, this exact pot.

It was so real that she felt shock at having forgotten such concrete facts. The memory of  _him_ , of herself, settled naturally into her mind, so much so that she could not imagine having not known it before. And yet, Hermione knew without a doubt that this recollection had an alien feel, that something had happened to make her forget it. It was hers, yet at once, not hers. She could not think of why it escaped her for so long; it was completely inconsequential.

Luna's words echoed in her mind.  _Do you think of him?_


	3. The Plant

As she pressed her hands against the sides of the newly repaired pot, Hermione felt herself walking down an echoing hallway.

The voice in the house was gone. All that was left was silence to magnify the memory of when she'd first held the pot. She thought of him, of the way he scoffed at the fern, and a small smile played on her lips. How could she have forgotten this?

 

 

*

 

Hermione inched down narrow Hogwarts hallways toward Snape's office in small, overly careful steps as to not step on the hems of her school robes. She hugged a small orange terracotta pot to her chest as it it were precious, precious cargo. The pot contained a small fern plant, its tendrils partly open, spindly and delicate like something out of a painting. When she came close to his office, the eager student stopped and adjusted the way the leaves were positioned for aesthetic effect. Snape seemed the type to appreciate those types of things, she thought. His office and classrooms were always impeccably arranged for maximal authority.

Staying close to the wall, she continued along her way slowly, picking off any unsightly petals—which seemed to be a never-ending chore. As soon as every yellowing leaf was picked away, some other imperfection caught her eye, and she felt compulsion to pick those away as well. First it was the yellow ones, then the irritatingly small ones, then the asymmetric ones.

Like an artist, she could not find a state of perfection.  _Stop,_  she scolded herself; there weren't going to be any leaves left if she kept going.

Suddenly, faster than she could process, her body met an unexpected sharp force. Ramming against something blonde and gasping, she fell back, potted plant flying out from her grip. The clay slammed into the floor with a crash. Hermione was on the floor, disoriented and horrified. Her fern lay in the distance on the dungeon ground.

"Watch where you're doing!"

"Oh my, Hermione. I'm terribly sorry!" a meek melodious voice called.

She looked at the other girl and felt incredible annoyance. Luna Lovegood, what a careless fool of a witch! Taking a deep breath, she calmed her temper and forced a stiff looking smile. "It's all right, Luna. A simple Reparo will do," she said.

Hermione took the fern out from the shattered pot and spilled soil. A wand wave forced the pot back together and filled it with every last crumb of dirt from the floor. She placed the fern in the fixed pot and pushed it into place. The previously pert and beautiful plant now looked rather pathetic.

"Here," Luna quickly offered, "I can fix it up!"

She spoke some sort of musical spell and tapped her wand to the beat on the rim of the pot. The fern's crushed fronds immediately straightened again, sprouting a few new leaves in the process. The stalks which hung together by a single twisting filament healed with the halves joined in opposite directions. The bottom leaflets faced up and the top ones faced the floor. Luna tapped at it again, but they stubbornly refused to be righted.

"Wow, bugger," she muttered, breathy and thin.

Hermione wrinkled her brow. "How did you do that? What kind of spell is that?"

"Plant healing, my dad taught it to me. Really sorry about it looking a bit odd." She pointed to the unnatural stalk. "Oh well, just going to have to grow a new one."

Picking up the pot, Hermione stood up. Her face was marred by a small scowl that spoke of her displeasure at someone knowing more magic than her. Luna soon followed suit and shook her long messy hair as she got to her feet.

"Um, thanks," the brown-haired witch muttered halfheartedly. She looked at the twisted stalks with disdain.

As if reading her mind, the other girl stared directly into her eyes and said, "They'll like it."

"Who?"

"Whoever you're giving this to. I'm sure they'll love it. It's unique!"

She snorted at the reassuring comment. As if Snape could _love_  anything.

"It's fine, Luna. It really is," she said absently as she turned away. Luna shrugged and continued upward out of the dungeons. After a few steps, she spun around and stared after Luna. The younger girl was skipping, each step springing full of joy before she reached the stairs.

One foot in front of the other, she navigated the maze-like dungeons toward his office. The empty halls echoed with each footstep, bringing a tightening anxiety to her chest. There was no reason to be afraid, she knew that much logically. He'd already said yes to her request for a letter of recommendation; there was no reason for him to reject her gift or her new request. And yet her heart thumped painfully as she approached his door.

At the door, she hesitated before knocking; much less than when she came last, but still a fair bit. Once she found the courage to rap on the heavy wooden door, she immediately took a step back and hugged the clay pot. She stood almost a meter back as if expecting him to open the door himself.

A muffled "yes" came from the door frame. There was no mistaking the irritation in his deep voice. Hermione stopped, wondering if she should run back to Gryffindor Tower. Her fingers traced the rim of the pot as she thought about simply leaving the pot beside his door with a note. As she was deep in contemplation, the door suddenly swung open. She jumped, very nearly dropping the pot again.

"Are you going to stand there forever, Miss Granger? If you have no intentions of entering, I suggest you scamper away and leave me to my work," he said softly, barely audible from her distance.

Hermione nervously entered the office.

The room was dim, lit only by a few tall white candles around his desk. Their flickering light cast strange glints on the many jars behind him, illuminating their edges but not their contents. The glass vials and jars were neatly stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling. She quietly stepped forward and sat down in the chair opposite him, clearly stiff with unease.

"Is there something you require, Miss Granger? I have already told you—"

"No sir," she quickly answered, unintentionally cutting him off. Snape narrowed his eyes and regarded her with undisguised impatience. The professor bore through her with his exacting gaze while he scribbled something on the essay he was grading, as if to finish some thought she'd interrupted. He picked up the parchment and sat it on a pile to his right, cold eyes never leaving Hermione. She swallowed involuntarily, palms becoming cold and clammy. "I—I just—" she stammered, shaken by his steady attention.

He sneered, set his quill down, and crossed his arms over his chest. The gesture only made her more tense, which she suspected was his intention all along. Suddenly feeling silly, she became determined to not fall prey to his amusement. She placed the pot on his desk and forced herself to spit out her words. "I just wanted to thank you for agreeing to write a letter for me. I wanted to give you this fern to show my appreciation." Hermione stumbled over her words slightly and added, "And I really do appreciate it!" as an afterthought.

Snape briefly swept his gaze over the plant, pausing at the odd backwards leaves. He looked quite unimpressed.

"It won't suffer in the dungeon without light, won't grow all tall and starved-looking. It'll be quite nice once it grows, I promise. It's a fern, yeah." She continued, rushing her words at full speed then wincing as she realized she hardly made sense.

"That much is obvious," he cut her off.

His student sucked in a nervous breath and rambled onward, "Well, sir. I just was wondering—you know—"

"No, I don't know, Miss Granger."

"Well, I—what I meant was—" the words seemed to knot together as she tried to stay coherent under his dismissive sneer. The chill of the dungeons suddenly seemed to creep up on her, causing her knees to tremble. Snape only added to her rising panic as he stared at her silently.

"Sir," she calmed herself down and dictated slowly, "my application requires the proposal of a specific research project. I was wondering if—"

"If you could trade your plebeian fern for a bit of my divine inspiration?" he smirked maliciously as he interrupted her. "And why should I help you anymore in this ludicrous endeavor, Miss Granger? Surely Professor Slughorn would be the one to speak to. He is—ah, what it is they call them these days—the Potions Master?" Words long and drawn out, he took every available syllable and pause to mock her. Hermione creased her brow at his condescension; she refused to be intimidated by his petty words. Two can play at this game.

"But sir, I would like my proposal to be relevant. Professor Slughorn hasn't been actively brewing or researching for very many years now. Surely your expertise is much more up to date. Unless you feel you're not—" She purposely paused, hoping she could challenge his ego.

"Unless what?" Snape muttered icily, daring her to insult him.

The bait was taken. Looking at him with her most innocent eyes, Hermione pretended to completely misinterpret his demeanor. "Unless you are too busy, sir. I would understand completely if you were!"

The wizard leaned back in his chair and considered her for a moment, shifting his expression from one of barely concealed irritation to amusement. He tapped his long, raw-boned fingers on the desk and gave her a small smirk. A glint in his told her that he was fully aware of her poorly executed attempt at manipulating him. "Well played, Miss Granger. One would have not suspected such an attempt from a Gryffindor." Hermione smiled sheepishly but quickly resumed her clueless face as he continued, "But don't feel too satisfied with yourself, you've absolutely no subtlety."

"And will you be teaching me that as well, sir?" She ventured.

Instead of scoffing at her, he laughed. "See me after class this Friday. I shall have a project in mind by then."

"Oh, thank you, sir!" Hermione burst into a huge uncontrollable smile and stood up quickly, knocking her chair backwards in the process. Snape snapped his eyes shut at the disturbance of wood falling on stone and scoffed at her.

"Get out of my office before you knock over something important," he said tersely, waving his hand for her to depart as soon as possible. But the bite in his tone was half-hearted. Obediently hurrying out, Hermione could feel her whole being swell with joy. For the first time all term, she felt hopeful that she was a step above everyone else, that she had some solid plans for the summer and for advancing herself. Her proposal was going to beat out all those other students; she just knew it.

The dungeons seemed sort of quaint and beautiful all of a sudden. She thought she heard him mutter "stupid girl" to himself as she cross the doorway, but it just made her smile even wider. She'd stared down the fearsome Professor Snape and lived to tell the tale. And, if only for a brief moment, she swore that she'd seen respect in his eyes.


	4. The Dream

**May 1998**

The woods were dark and damp, each twig and each leaf no more than black streaks to the corners of blurred vision. He ran, twisting through the trees blindly, but could not find any way out nor any landmarks which which to calm his fearful nerves. Breath growing thin, the man felt himself tire; his every step through the moist underbrush was heavier than the previous one, draining strength and will. He grew light-headed; blood pooled toward his feet.

"Severus," a chilling voice hissed through the darkness.

Despite his heavy eyelids and failing consciousness, the wizard straightened himself. "Yes, my lord," he replied, sounding hoarse and frail as if he would wither away at any moment. Body swaying with the breeze, he tried to bow but collapsed on the forest floor instead.

"You have been a most loyal and useful servant," Voldemort breathed through his thin lips, barely moving them. "So I will give you the choice—a soul for a soul. Will you take her place?"

Snape could not lift himself from the ground; the world swam around him. All he could see was the glistening white of his lord's alabaster wand against the blackness. He transfixed his eyes on the wand—so familiar, so menacing. He felt intense fear, not for himself, but for her. His soul for Hermione, there was no question; it was not a choice, it was law. "Yes. Anything, anything," he whispered through his dizziness.

A barely audible hiss came from Voldemort's lips as he smiled cruelly.

A thick, slithering sound filled his senses. Snape could barely register the event as the giant snake raised its head and shot forward. It sank its long fangs into his neck, and he felt potent poison burning and twisting through him, collecting in his heart and mind. The pain all but pushed out all his other senses. Hermione's face looked down at him, appearing from nowhere, her eyes were blank; she did not care for him, not even in his last moments. Voldemort laughed, his thin voice sounding of wind traveling from the distance. It was almost like a faint, piercing whistling.

Snape woke with a start. The kettle was screeching in the kitchen.

His hand automatically flew to his neck to cover where his wound had been. Once he was sure that it had only been a dream, he shut off the fire with a wand flick and looked down at the pile of papers in front of him. He'd fallen asleep going through endless pile of bureaucratic paperwork. Heart still pounding erratically, the headmaster straightened the papers he'd scattered in his nightmare for lack of a better thing to do. His hands shook uncontrollably as he tried to stack them.

This was the seventh time in a row he'd dreamed of the forest. Severus Snape was never one to place much belief in prophecy, but he couldn't ignore this warning. There was a tough, unyielding feeling about the fact. It felt like chewing old bread left out for too many days. No matter how clever he was, this was not an omen he could bargain his way out of.

But he'd be damned if he did not plan for the uncertainties ahead.

*

Pacing back and forth in front of the dwindling fire, Snape contemplated his options in a bizarrely rational manner. It was May; he knew there was time yet, but what time he had was not to be wasted in hysterics. McGonagall could take care of the school when he was gone. That much he was certain. Slughorn would make sure that Hogwarts did not suffer a loss of reputation. The old man was a bit of a weasel, but even weasels had their uses.

Hopefully Potter would be sufficiently coached and prepared; perhaps he was already and Dumbledore simply did not let him know? This he expressed concern over as the Potter boy was woefully and unprecedentedly idiotic. But there were ways to circumvent the problem of his death. He could prepare a proxy, a type of hidden riddle that Potter could not refuse to relay his messages. Perhaps something promising a golden nugget about his equally idiotic father.

And God forbid Potter failed, it wouldn't be as if the world ended. He had plans to ensure the boy's survival at all costs, that much would justify his death—his debt and his penance. Dark times, dark times, they'd all shake their head and moan about the horror, but it would pass. If not Potter, another would rise to the challenge. The world was a wheel such that no one man can stand at the top for very long. And despite Voldemort's power, Snape knew the Dark Lord was just a man, for he did not have the grace to be more.

Then there was Hermione. He allowed himself the momentary weakness of thinking of her and found that she seemed to drown out everything else. An acute despair gripped him when his mind lingered on the way her eyes stare at him blankly. He should have left her alone all along. It only served to make the state of affairs all the more regrettable that he still remembered while she did not. The small twinge in his chest became unbearable as a dreaded realization struck him: he might never even see her again.

He was going to pass like a whisper that she'd barely notice.

It was for the best, he supposed, so she could live an untainted life. But the more he thought about it, the more he felt cheated. He didn't need her to feel anything for him, that he could sacrifice, but he desperately needed her to know the lengths he would go for her. He could care less if the mindless masses condemned him, but she couldn't.

Snape suddenly stopped mid-step, brow furrowed and eyes darting around almost feverishly. There was a way to reverse the spell—he'd been too hasty and thinking in the wrong paradigm. A single counter spell was not the answer.  _Memory enchantments made against the will of the victim must always dissolve through pieces._ Where had he seen the line? The blockish script on yellow parchment flashed in front of his eyes. He tapped the sturdy wood of the table impatiently then stumbled over to his bookshelf.

He pulled out a large charms text and flipped through it, looking more for context rather than content. If he saw the page, he could instantly recognize the words. The paper color wasn't right in this one. Snape set the book on the floor and continued to its neighbor. It, too, did not feel right; the text was too small. One by one, he pulled out all of the books and discarded them once they failed to match his mental image. When he'd cleared three shelves without any luck, he suddenly remembered where the book laid.

Slamming the text in his hand down on a precarious stack, he cursed. Of course it had to be the last place he would consider. The damn book was at his house.

Quickly stepping over the mess on the floor, he moved toward the fireplace, kicking down a tower of books in the process. The dark-haired man threw a fistful of Floo powder into the flames. "14 Spinner's End!" he shouted, suddenly intensely awake from the mental rush. The green fire flared upwards, and he stepped into its blazing arms without so much as a blink.

The house's tiny fireplace spat him out in a cloud of soot. Snape pointed at the four corners of the freezing room with this wand and lit a series of nearly burnt out candles. Not even bothering to brush the chimney dust from his robes, he hastily ran to the door. The image of the book was extremely clear to him: fourth shelf behind the door, middle of the row...the red spine seemed to glow in the flickering light.

Yanking the book out of its resting place, he went over to the dining table to study it.  _Forgetfulness and Deeper Forgetfulness_ , it was aptly titled. The wizard flipped through the pages looking for the specific line he'd recited in his head and felt cold and uncharacteristically thirsty. The tea! He'd left the blasted kettle on the stove untouched. Fishing out a glass from the kitchen cabinets, he filled it with water from his wand and waited for it to warm. Merlin knows how long ago he'd used the actual faucet.

Settling back down at the table with his steaming glass, he thumbed to the chapter on antidotes and found the magic paragraph. "Memory enchantments made against the will of the victim must always dissolve through pieces," he read aloud. "Full restorations are not always possible." Why yes, thank you for the obvious. "Memories cannot be shown to the victim explicitly or restored through spellcasting, but rather must originate from his/her own mind through a natural process."

Snape set his glass down and groaned in annoyance. Like he was a bloody miracle maker. "Rememberance can be achieved through reintroduction of the memoire enchantment in relevant sounds, sights, and items." Sounds and sights were out of the question, but items he could manage. But how many? He combed through the text without luck. As many as he could manage then.

Glancing around the room, he tried to find something that Hermione had seen or touched. None of the books were good candidates. The newspaper? She did love to read that piece of drivel when they were together. Snape ran over to the stack of papers on the end table and scoff as he thumbed through them; they were all too recent. Neatly stacking them by date, he set them back. This was ridiculous. She'd never been to his house, so of course there was nothing of use.

But the house was not completely worthless, he thought. It could be the vessel through which he gave her the items. Hermione would not refuse it if it were left to her. Everything was an opportunity to the girl and a house was no different. Yes, he decided, he would do it. Working late into the early hours of dawn, he moved back and forth between the school and his house, gathering up all that he could find and planting them all around the house.

'Ah—but what if she never touched them?' a nasty voice nagged in the back of his mind. Snape ignored the worrying question, but only because he had no other choice. What else could he do? He could certainly try other things-but it seemed prudent to have some sort of solid plan to fall back on in case of failure. It would take the better part of a few months to just process his will through the bloody bureaucracy and bequeath it all to her, never mind testing the inception on some unwitting subject or come up with a better idea.

The will! He had to go write the will!

The headmaster rushed back to his office and feverishly scratched out the document.

_"I, Severus Snape, of 14 Spinner's End, Yorkshire, United Kingdom, declare that this is my Last Will and Testament, written while of sound mind and..."_

He paused when he's finished the paragraph declaring her name. The words 'Hermione J. Granger' made him skip a breath. It occurred to him how selfish this was. Such a public gesture would sully her reputation, her life. The world would whisper about him, but they would also forever judge her too. The fact he had left her anything at all would register as scandalous. He pushed the parchment away and sat paralyzed in his chair. It was weak of him to do this to her just as it was weak of him to let himself fall in love with a student.

Feeling disgusted with himself, he shoved the will in a drawer and locked it. Holding his head in his hands, he ventured a glance at the drawer.

It was too cruel.

He couldn't bring himself to be so unfair to her.


	5. The Textbook

Snape's coffee table was covered in tiny, alphabetically organized boxes. It was almost evening, and Hermione had only just gotten through the T's. Somewhere between deciding what to give to Hogwarts and what to sell, she'd begun to start reading the books. It was not until the daylight crept away, and she found herself unable to see the words, that she finally noticed how late it had gotten.

The girl cursed under her breath and placed her book inside of an open box. She needed to send Luna a note that she'd be home late. Hermione lit a small fire in the fireplace and reach up for the Floo powder only to discover it was practically empty. Throwing the entire thing into the fire only made the weak flames glow a sickly yellow-green. Best it could do, she supposed, and tossed her tiny note into the fireplace. There was no way to tell whether it made it across or simply burnt up in the fire, and she tried to not worry either way. Hermione's stomach made an empty rumble when she stood up. Perhaps it was time for some dinner.

Careful not to disturb her castle of boxes, the witch slipped around the couches toward her purse which lay on the kitchen table. One of the chairs was drawn out from when she last sat down. There was just something about drawn chairs that invoked the habit in her to restore order. Instinctively, she pushed it into the table.

The rickety dining chair bumped against something on the floor, and she tried to shove it toward the table again, shaking it a bit to the left and right. The spindly chair refused to be put in its place. Hermione bend down under the table to see what was the matter and found that one of its legs was bumping against something. A quick sweep with wandlight revealed that it was a rectangular object, trapped under the table. She summoned it toward her with an outstretched hand. A leathery spine flew into her hand.

'Great', she thought, 'yet another book.'

Coming out from under the table, Hermione sat down on the previously stubborn chair and took a good look at the book. It was a thick and heavy tome with its pages wrinkled and stuffed, as if there were too many for the covers to keep inside comfortably. Yellowing parchment stuck out of it at odd angles. A quick flip through sent a cloud of musty dust into the air—grey spores from water damage. Hermione pushed the book away and held her breath, waiting for the mold to settle into the darkness. One of the parchment notes stuffed inside fell onto the table as she did so.

Hermione held her wand to the note and wrinkled her brow. The sharp typography was eerily familiar. In fact, it looked rather like her own handwriting.

"Professor Snape, please accept my sincerest apologies for damaging your book."

Puzzled, Hermione turned the parchment over to try and find a signature; the back was blank. She hadn't the foggiest recollection of writing such a note or anything that would warrant it. Holding the note closer, she inspected the writing again. Its words were written with spots of hesitating ink pooling around the bottom of letters, but it looked to be her own nonetheless. Perhaps the low light was playing tricks on her. Hermione lit the candles in the kitchen and stared at the note some more. It was even more uncanny in the light.

Summoning a quill, ink, and parchment from her purse, she closed her eyes and copied the message. Compared against the book's note, it was nearly identical. But it made no sense—she'd never touched a book of his, much less ruined one.

Hermione gingerly pulled back the book by a corner and glanced at the title.

_Multi-use Magical Materials_

And then she remembered it, clear as it were yesterday.

*

For the third time in a week, Hermione found herself nervously standing meters outside her professor's office. She held a large book close to her chest while trying to work up the courage to knock. Always hesitating, always afraid, always clutching something, she thought wryly.

"Miss Granger, I can hear you shuffling outside!"

The young witch gave a startled yelp and rushed forward into the office. Only two steps in, she froze with her hand still on the door knob. Snape, too, froze in mid motion, interrupted by her sudden entrance. He scowled at her, one hand holding a teacup halfway to his lips.

Hermione broke the silence first. "I'm terribly sorry to inter—"

"I don't recall—"

" —rupt, sir—"

"—telling you to enter."

Both fell silent.

"I'm—", "As—" they said in unison, fighting for the room's sound.

Snape paused, as if anticipating more hurried words from her. Once it seemed that Hermione was allowing him the floor, he continued, "—you've been fidgeting outside my door for ten minutes fully knowing our appointment is not until—"

"5 o'clock. I know." She cringed as she'd interrupted him again.

"—5 o'clock." He finished his sentence slowly.

Hermione let go of the doorknob and glanced at her watch. "I could go—" It was more of a courtesy suggestion than a real one; surely he would let her stay on account that he wasn't really busy.

Snape set his teacup down on his desk and stared at her. The corners of his lips twitched as he stated flatly, "Yes."

"You really want me to go outside, sir?"

"Yes."

"Oh, well, alright then—"

Hermione pulled the door closed as she stepped backwards. Glancing at her watch again, she leaned against the wall. Five minutes seemed like an eternity, even with the distraction of flipping through her book. At exactly five, Hermione burst through the door, announcing, "It's 5 o'clock, sir!"

Her professor was frozen again in mid action, this time with a quill in hand. "Have I invited you in, Miss Granger? I don't recall—"

"Sorry, sir," she muttered as she stepped backwards into the hallway and pulled the door closed. Another five minutes passed in an excruciatingly slow manner, mostly due to Hermione checking her watch every ten seconds. It was clear now that he was trying her. It took every bit of self control for her to not enter his office and demand his attention. How rude of him to purposely delay her!

Five minutes turned into ten into twenty. Hermione gave the door one last glance and decided to leave. She refused to give him the satisfaction of wasting anymore of her time. Just as she picked up her bag, she heard his voice crawling out from under the door.

"Enter, Miss Granger."

Hermione took a deep breath to calm herself and opened the door slowly. One look at his smirk set her anger bubbling inside. It was a force in itself, propelling blood faster than her heart. Slightly flushed and jittery, she sat down across from him with an undisguised glare.

"Perhaps others have commended you for your eagerness, but I think you'll find that people outside the watchful eye of Hogwarts will not reward you for it. Keep it in, Miss Granger; pretend you don't care, or no one will listen to you. And that would be just tragic, now wouldn't it?"

Continuing to glare, Hermione pressed her lips together.

"Well, if you are not going to start talking, I suppose we can end our meeting. I do hear it is remarkable outside today." He dragged out his words as he pushed his chair back.

"No, no!" Hermione interjected suddenly, "I need to discuss my proposal with you, sir!"

"Do you now?"

"Yes, I—" She placed her book on the desk and pushed it toward her professor. The student took a deep breath, seeming to gather her confidence before she continued. "It's about what we discussed last time. I've read through this book you gave me, but I've got a different proposal idea that I want to write."

Snape pulled his chair back toward the desk, filling the room with an echoing screech of wood against stone. "You don't like my idea?" he asked icily.

"No! I mean yes! I liked it! I just think it would be better if I wrote about something I came up with. And I want to ask for your help and your professional opinion on it," she quickly replied. The air pressure in the room seemed to suddenly drop and suck her forward. Hermione withdrew her hands to hold them beneath the table.

"Well then, go on, impress me," he challenged her.

"I still want to write about antidote delivery, but I want to propose building the antidote to slowly and continually release inside the body instead of adding an automating dosage enchantment. That way, there are no cyclic fluctuations where half the time there's too much antidote and half the time, there's too little."

"And how do you propose to do this?"

"By encapsulating the potion in a slowly degrading substance!" She responded proudly.

Snape considered the idea for a moment. "A merit-able suggestion, Miss Granger, but you think too much like a Muggle. There's very little magic in such an idea. The potioneers will not like it." He seemed quite satisfied that he'd found a weakness in her proposal.

"That's why I wanted your help, sir. I don't know what type of substances are suitable and if charms could be used. I thought you'd be more knowledgeable than anyone else on the matter. What do you advise?" She appealed to his vanity.

"I advise against this direction," he said bluntly.

"But, sir, I think it could be quite productive!" She protested.

Levitating his book back into his bookshelf, Snape gave Hermione a weary look. Gryffindors were always so hard-headed, the fools. "I suppose original thought ought to be encouraged. This is a text on magical materials. Perhaps you will find it enlightening," he said blandly as he summoned a brown, leather-bound text. "Might I suggest the chapter on resins." Hermione's face lifted at the sight of the book. She immediately reached forward to grab the book but caught herself and stopped. Must not be too eager, she told herself.

"What a quick learner you are, Miss Granger."

She smiled sheepishly.

Once the book settled down on the desk, Snape flipped through it to check that it was the right one before handing it to his student. Hermione snatched the book over excitedly and opened the heavy cover. "Thank you, sir!" she exclaimed.

"If that is all—"

"Yes!" she accidentally interrupted him again. "I mean—I was also wondering if I could meet with you next Monday to discuss my progress."

Snape rolled his eyes. "And I suppose you'll want to meet every Monday after that."

"Well, now that you mention it, sir—I think it'd be really beneficial," Hermione said as she nodded and thumbed through the book simultaneously. She was going to be accepted into the program with this proposal, no doubt about it. Out of anything she'd ever felt, hope was most supreme and addicting.

"Marvelous," he said dryly.

"So I'll see you next Monday at 5pm, sir."

"If you must."

His eyes followed her hands as she shut the book and picked up her bag. The young witch seemed to be deliberately taking her time. "I want to say thanks. Again." He merely blinked at her. "It means a lot to me that you're supporting my idea and all. I'm really grateful to you, Professor—" Snape gave a disgusted look. Did the girl ever shut up?

"Goodbye."

"I just want to say—"

"Goodbye, Miss Granger."

 

*

 

Hermione ran all the way to the Great Hall where dinner was just beginning to serve itself; she could barely wait to begin reading and writing. Original thought ought to be encouraged! Brilliance would always be rightly recognized! She sat down beside Ron with an air of purpose, as if she were a cup spilling greatness. Pushing her plate forward, she slammed her book down causing a slight cloud of dust to blow out from its old pages.

"Whoa!" Ron snatched up his plate and held it protectively from the dust.

"Sorry, Ron," she muttered as she flipped through the heavy pages. "I'm just so excited about this! I'm going to apply for an apprenticeship, and I think I'll get it!"

The food nearly fell out of his mouth. "You want to work during the summer? Don't we do enough work here?" he said in a horrified, full-mouth muffle. Hermione shot him a tired glare; she should have known the idea of professional development was beyond him.

"Honestly, Ron, a Hogwarts education won't give you everything. I refuse to be some entry level ministry secretary. Maybe you ought to apply for something too," she lectured him.

Ron set his plate down and glanced at her book. "I think I'll take my chances. Ministry secretary sounds quite glamorous," he replied sarcastically and pretended to turn up his nose.

Hermione stared at him as he stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth and chewed vigorously. "That's not very ambitious. Don't you want to be something some more? To do something great?" Ron merely shrugged and continued chewing as if it were a trivial concern. "Nothing?" Hermione inquired, alarmed by his lack of aspiration.

The red-haired boy swallowed his food and turned to her. "Look, Hermione, it's not a bloody race. We can't all be famous or brilliant. I don't feel some higher calling like you or Harry. I'm a firm believer in working only as hard as you have to. All I want is to have some nice things, to have a nice house, a job, family, some friends. Are you're going tell me there's something wrong with that?"

But there was supposed to be something wrong with that, wasn't there? Suddenly, Hermione felt herself shrink back in her seat, unable to reconcile what she'd always been taught to think and what Ron said. Neither seemed right. She hadn't expected it, but Ron's words seemed infinitely more mature than anything she could think to say. The witch turned back to her book as if it held answers, but it was just a book about materials, about inanimate things, nothing more.

She grabbed a plate of kidney pie and took a bite so she did not have to reply. Perhaps she'd not given Ron enough credit after all.

"Can you pass the pumpkin juice, Hermione?" Ron pointed down the table to a nearly empty porcelain pitcher just as he resumed eating.

Still caught in her thought, Hermione absently reached for the pumpkin juice immediately to her right. Not expecting its lightness, her hand lifted it up with excessive force. Pumpkin juice flew out of the pitcher and all over the table in a sticky downpour. "Blimey," Ron sputtered as he tried to soak up the mess before it dripped over the table. "A bit of help here?"

But Hermione was too preoccupied to help. Her book was completely wet. Hurriedly waving her wand with drought charms, she felt her heart fall toward the floor. Professor Snape was going to murder her. The pages shriveled up as her charm acted, wrinkling and warping in the process as water evaporated, leaving behind sugar and a sickly orange pumpkin color. "Oh Merlin, no," she whispered as she tried to stop the charm from ruining another page. Then, using her robes, Hermione tried to blot the parchment.

"It's just a book, Hermione. Help me with the table. What's that charm again?" Ron pulled at her sleeve.

"It's not just a book, Ron! I borrowed it! It's Professor Snape's book!" Hermione exclaimed hysterically as she dabbed at the pages.

"Snape's book!" Ron became equally alarmed as he stopped tending to the table and jumped up to help her. When the book seemed to be as dry as it was going to get, he sat back down and patted Hermione on the back sympathetically. "Good as new!"

Hermione gave him an incredulous look and pointed at some blurred ink. "Good as new? It's completely ruined! He'll strangle me!"

"That's quite over dramatic, but I wouldn't put it past the git—" he corrected himself when he saw Hermione's widened eyes, "—now what I meant to say is: I think it looks fantastic. What if we held a flame or something to dry it out? Incend-"

Shoving his wand out of the way, she huffed, "And burn it?"

"Good point," he reconsidered. "What about Reparo!" The book fluttered weakly but refused to be fixed.

"Thanks for the effort," Hermione said, half-hearted, and placed the book on the seat beside her should further mishaps be on the horizon. What was she going to do? Maybe she could just keep the book forever and hope that he would not remember, but Snape was definitely not the forgetful type. Perhaps she'd silently slip it back onto his bookshelf. She'd be long gone and graduated before he ever found out. But that seemed so slimy and undignified. People ought to take responsibility for themselves!

She figured the middle ground was to write him a note of apology and leave it with the book on his desk. That way, she took full responsibility but would not have to face him and his wrath immediately. Hermione fully expected to be called to his office for a tongue lashing or some mysteriously assigned detentions once she gave the book back.

To her surprise, nothing happened. Snape acted as if he'd never received the book or her note. The only indication that he even knew was a single knowing smirk he gave her the morning after she'd left it on his desk. It was an expression that struck fear into her heart like nothing else. Hermione waited tensely every potions class for the moment he would explode, but it never came.

In hindsight, her constant anticipation anxiety was worse than any detention could have been.

 

*

 

Hermione closed the book. It was completely black outside now.

Despite having remembered a few things, she knew she was standing on the rim of a deep and dark pool, just one step away from falling in completely. It wasn't just forgetfulness from an over-eventful year, because people forget events, they do not forget their attitudes. You cannot simply forget that you liked or hated someone—thoughts may be fleeting, but emotion is forever. She knew something had happened—some sort of sensitive information concerning Snape. Was it Voldemort and his Death Eaters who charmed her memory? Was it the Order? Was it her friends? Did she betray someone?

The young witch suddenly felt distrustful and disappointed in everyone around her. How could they have failed to undo such a terrible thing once it all ended, and what if she was a completely different Hermione all together because of it? The answers seemed to be in the house somewhere, screaming silently for her to find them.

Hermione blasted the window open with a jet of air and yelled, "Expecto Patronum!"

A silver otter sprang forth and twisted past the frame before turning around.

"Luna, I'm not going to be home tonight."

The otter bounced in the air delightfully before speeding off to deliver her message.

 


	6. The Umbrella

Gray morning crept through curtain edges like prying eyes. Hermione threw an arm over her face and rolled over. Instinctively, she knew it was quite late in the morning and she ought to be up. But she was dreaming of something beautiful, and she desperately wanted to continue. A few more minutes of sleep never hurt anyone. The girl shifted to a more comfortable position, and her knees bumped painfully into something solid.

Eyes snapping open, Hermione looked down at the unexpectedly offensive barrier. Her knees had hit a wooden support under the thinning fabric of a couch. Slowly, she rolled her head around and realized she was sleeping in someone else's house. Dream completely forgotten, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. It sounded of drizzling rain outside.

The floor around her was littered with tiny boxes and the remnants of the previous night's fish and chips. Hermione picked up a chip and threw it on the coffee table. Fish and chips always seemed like a fantastic treat—all the deep-fried delight a girl could want, but yet she always felt monumentally disappointed upon first bite. Neither the fish nor the chips were ever as delicious as she imagined. This time was no different. Grimacing at the grease left on her fingers from the chip, she looked around momentarily for a serviette before succumbing to laziness and wiping it on her robes.

What a mess.

After pulling back her unruly hair, Hermione stood up and stretched. There was an unpleasantly rank taste in her mouth, most likely due to her lack of tooth brushing the night before. 'Mum and dad would be so alarmed,' she thought to herself. Looking around, she noted with pride that the house was far more presentable today than it had been when she started.

Hermione grabbed her leftover beverage from last night and took a sip to try and get rid of the awful taste on her tongue. It wasn't exactly refreshing, but it would do. She then turned her attention to the boxes of books and levitated them back onto the stack on the table. With a wave, the fish and chips were swept up and dumped into the bin. No amount of additional reading and cleaning had yielded any other memories for her. It was time to go home.

It was only a drizzle outside the house, but Hermione suspected that it might be pouring at her flat. It was times like these that she regretted settling for a flat in a largely muggle community where she was required to apparate to the alley behind the building and walk around rather than straight to the doorstep. Hermione looked around for an umbrella, but the doorway was completely empty. She opened the hall closet next. It was filled with out of style, moth-eaten coats.

To her delight, there was a large, black umbrella leaning in the corner. Upon inspection, the umbrella seemed quite new, contrary to the rest of the closet. Hitching her purse higher on her shoulder, Hermione took the umbrella and stepped outside. After locking the door, she walked to the gap between the row of houses and its neighboring row and apparated away.

Just as she had suspected, it was pouring in London. Her muggle shoes were no match for the alley puddles and her feet were soaked within two steps. English summer rain-what was one to do? Hermione trudged forward to get to the street, holding her umbrella low to keep the rain out. For a brief moment, she had the feeling that someone was behind her. She quickly turned around, but the alley was empty.

Once she was on the street proper, she made toward her building. Again, she turned around with the sense that someone was behind her. There was still no one.

She continued until she was just before the steps to her house. It was then that she suddenly felt the gnawing feeling of someone behind her morph into a very real sensation of a hand on her shoulder. This time there was someone there, not in the street then, but on the open grounds of Hogwarts a long time ago. She didn't dare turn around. This thought was like her elusive morning dream-if she so much as twitched, it would escape her completely.

 

*

  


Snape shot her a glare and snapped his book shut. "If I remember correctly, Miss Granger, our need for interaction has passed," he said, slowing down at the end for effect. The comment barely registered a reaction from Hermione; she stood silently by the door. Her lack of response was quite apparent to him as she customarily rushed straight to the seat opposite of him to chatter about something irrelevant.

"Miss Granger?" He gave her an odd look.

Hermione inched forward with heavy steps and sat down rather stiffly. "I just wanted to thank you again for all your guidance. The —er —the decision — I received an owl about it this morning, and I thought — uh, I thought you'd like to know seeing as you've helped me so much. I really hate to be one of those people who you never hear from again — you know, you have to run into them sometime and ask before they let you know. And quite frankly, I don't see you as the type to run into me and ask, sir."

"I see you are here to waste my time again," Snape snapped. Hermione stopped and waited to continue.

"I wasn't chosen for the apprenticeship," she said simply. A bubble began to grow in her throat as she admitted it. Hermione straightened in her chair, determined to force away the feeling away. She added, "But I want to thank you for your help anyway."

"How tragic," her professor replied with a sneer. This pithy comment made Hermione's blood boil. It was a sort of textbook reply, used casually and automatically. How dare he belittle her failure?

Hermione burst out, "But it isn't fair! They should have chosen me. Don't you care at all?"

"Miss Granger," he began, voice dropping ever so slightly, "It isn't my job to care whether you succeed in your shameless overachieving or not. I'm not here to play agony aunt with you." Snape leaned back in his chair.

"But surely you care just a bit. I worked so hard on this. I bet I'm the only one out of all the applicants that came up with an original idea independently. I don't understand!" Hermione continued to whinge. The dam had broken and it was going to all flow out, regardless of the audience.

Snape folded his arms and replied coldly, "I thought you better than this, Miss Granger. You have let your successes skew your perspective. Perhaps this is a good experience for you."

Hermione felt her eyes grow hot. "You haven't any kind words to say, at all?"

Snape snapped back, "What would you have me say? You are beautiful? You are perfect? You deserve everything? I let you know in the beginning that you should have picked another topic. You only have yourself to blame."

This last strike hit straight at the heart, and Hermione felt her eyes water up and her throat swell shut. "You're wrong. They loved my idea," she managed to croak out. Snape looked distinctly uncomfortable as it dawned on him that she was about to cry. Young girls were so temperamental!

"Miss Gran —"

"I'm sorry to have wasted your time." Hermione stood up and left in a hurry, feeling ashamed and foolish that she'd not only cried in front of Snape but stupidly expected any consolation from him. She turned to go back to her quarters, but a rush of students were walking her way to get to class. The face of Ginny Weasley stood out amongst them. Not wanting anyone to see her tears, Hermione wiped her eyes and turned around. To her dismay, there were more students around the corner in this direction also. She looked around for any direction to go.

There was a door leading outside, but it was raining outside and bitterly cold. She looked left then right, hesitating about the choice, then headed for the door. She reasoned that she could walk around to another entrance. Better cold than humiliating herself in front of everyone. Upon leaving the castle, she instantly regretted it. Hermione couldn't help but cry even harder at the injustice of it all. There was no way to go but forward now. The soggy ground soaked her shoes in just a few steps. She wanted to walk faster, but her knees were shaking from the cold and could only move in small, mechanical steps.

Hermione's teeth chattered loudly as she trudged forward. Suddenly, she felt the rain stop and warm air enclose her. There was a hand on her shoulder. She turned around in small shivers. A tall, black figure held an umbrella over her. At first, the water running down her face made it impossible to see anything, but as the umbrella shielded her, she began to make out the face of her professor.

*****

 

Snape sat in his office, unnerved by the sudden outburst of his student. Perhaps he had been too harsh on her? He contemplated whether he had handled that particular episode correctly. The little green fern on his desk seemed to stare at him accusingly. He reminded himself that young people were always terribly irrational.

The dark-haired man peeked into the hallway but could not catch sight of her. It seemed that he'd waited too long in his office, and she was well on her way. Just before he ducked back in to forget the incident, he spotted her through the window on the door leading outside. Snape rushed into his office for his umbrella. Merlin forbid she go and do something stupid like throw herself off a bridge. Granger was definitely the neurotic type to do so over something petty like a rejection letter.

*****

 

Hermione pushed her wet fringe aside to get a good look at her professor. He had a strange expression that seemed to not fit his face. "Don't be so melodramatic, Miss Granger. Where is that sense you always claim you have?" he lectured her. Too ashamed to look him in the eye, she stared at the soggy grass below. She sniffed and wiped her eyes on her robes.

"Sorry to have bothered you."

Snape sighed, feeling distinctly out of place. "It's quite alright, Granger. Why don't we—"

"I just don't understand they wouldn't chose  _me_ ," Hermione interrupted, still sniffing. "Am I not good enough?"

"Let's not enjoy the delightful weather any longer, Miss Granger." He ushered her back toward the castle, holding the charmed umbrella carefully over her.

But Hermione hadn't finished. She turned up to him and asked, "Just be honest with me. What is wrong with me? Am I that unpleasant? Why would he chose someone else?"

Snape stopped and sighed loudly. "Must you always be so —" he began in an exasperated tone, but thought better of it and continued more kindly, "Let me explain this in a manner you can understand. Sometimes, it doesn't matter if you are good enough. It doesn't even matter if you are better than everyone else. And it certainly won't matter how hard you try. That isn't how things work in the world."

"Then what does matter?" Hermione asked in a panicked voice.

He paused before answering. "Who you are and the people you know. You must understand, to these wizards, you are no one."

His student was visibly alarmed by this comment. "But that's not right!" she exclaimed. "If merit doesn't matter, then how are we ever supposed to make progress? How are people supposed to rise out of their status? Maybe some of the best advances for wizard kind are lost because we aren't given chances. This is so barbaric!"

"Well, like the old saying goes: they don't know you, but they know money."

Hermione thought about it for a moment before saying firmly, "One day I'm going to change that."

"Best of luck overturning centuries of prejudice," he replied with a sneer.

"Thank you, professor" she said very seriously. "You know, I feel oddly relieved. I don't suppose you meant for it, but I'm loads better now than I was, so thanks."

Snape stared at her incredulously. "Some people are just hopeless."

"What's that mean?"

"In case you haven't noticed, Miss Granger, we are outside. It is November, it is raining, and you are making me late for my class. If you have anymore comments, you may write them down and submit them to my suggestion box," he said sarcastically. Hermione took the hint and walked back with him under the protection of his umbrella.

"You've got a suggestion box?" she asked.

"Yes." he smirked at her. "It's conveniently located in the rubbish bin."

"Hermione!"

"Hermione!"

The brown-haired witch blinked, seeing with limited comprehension. She came back first noticing the cold patter of the rainwater. This was followed by the unpleasant sensation of grit between her toes and the soles of her shoes. Finally, she saw a wet Luna, waving at her in every direction.

"Hermione! What are you doing? Is this some kind of new activity? Can we do it together?"

"I'm just coming home. Nothing special," she explained. Hermione extended her umbrella over Luna and gestured for them to walk toward their flat.

Luna looked mildly disappointed. "Oh, well you were standing there in the rain for quite a while."

"Was I?"

Luna fumbled around her pockets for her key. "Oh dear, I must have left it upstairs," she said as she came up empty. Hermione rolled her eyes and fished hers out in one swift motion. The heavy wooden door yielded easily to her push. Once inside, she asked Luna again.

"How long was I standing there?"

"I counted 5 minutes before I came down, but it could have been more before I noticed you were there," she replied lightly, as if it didn't alarm her at all. Luna dried them with a wave of her wand. The charm made Hermione's hair stand straight up and the inside of her shoes extremely uncomfortable.

Hermione took off her right shoe. A stream of sand fell out as she tilted it. "I really wish you wouldn't use that charm. It never quite works right," she complained as she emptied the other shoe.

"Sorry Hermione, it always works for me!" They walked up the stairs toward their flat. Luna added as an afterthought,"You wouldn't happen to have seen a Dillyforth, would you?"

"No, I don't know what those are." Hermione gave her an annoyed look. Once inside the door, she took the umbrella with her, not having the heart to leave it where the other umbrellas sat.

Luna gave a knowing wink as she entered behind Hermione. "Dillyforths can make you skip a bit in time! They have massive purple-ish eyes, very sharp teeth, and a luxurious striped coat. I've always dreamed of touching one. I hear the experience quite surreal. Hermione, aren't you going to leave your wet brolly?"

"Oh, no, I think I'll take it with me," she stammered. "By the way, do you ever forget things, Luna?"

"Loads! I forgot our key just now."

Hermione clasped the umbrella close with its ribbon and sent it into her bedroom. "No, I mean, like, events. Do you ever forget things that happened at school or conversations you've had? And then you suddenly remember, and it seems so silly that you'd forgotten."

Her flatmate nodded intently. "That happens all the time. I think it's only natural when so much has happened in the last year. Sometimes dad shows me pictures, and I'm like 'Merlin, I forgot all about that!'"

"Oh, I suppose you're right," Hermione said softly, sounding both relieved and disappointed. "How's your dad anyway?"

Luna sat down at the kitchen table and brushed off some crumbs onto the floor. "They still won't let him leave St. Mungo's. I've tried a million times to tell them that he's not cursed or mental. But he'll come home eventually. He just needs to calm down."

"And hows your house?" Hemione asked out of courtesy. She felt far too fortunate that her parents and her home were still intact when many of her friends had neither comfort. It also made her terribly guilty that she didn't want to return to her perfectly intact home. But it was those few times when her mother accidentally called her father 'Wendell' that made it inhospitable to her.

"Oh it's coming along great. The builders are doing such a great job with the repairs. Will you go with me to see it next week?" Luna asked excitedly.

"Of course," Hermione replied, feeling slightly uncomfortable as she was the one who'd wrecked the house in the first place. She sat down across from Luna and listened to her ramble about all the strange artifacts they would get to see. Suddenly, Hermione giggled, causing Luna to stop.

"What's funny?"

"Oh, I just had a funny thought. You wouldn't think it was funny though."

Luna shrugged and continued talking dreamily.

Hermione nodded as if she were listening, but she was too busy laughing inside at what she'd just remembered: in her delirious state of rejection, she'd not been trying to ask Snape why she hadn't gotten an apprenticeship. She was trying to ask why Ron had chosen Lavender Brown over her.


	7. The Doe

**December 1997**

_"Expecto Patronum!"_

A silver otter sprang forth into the evening air. It danced around, teasing the last leaves on the forest trees to relinquish their hold. Snape cursed under his breath. The irony of the moment was almost too much. Of all the times he required Lily, she retreated when her son was in need.

He cut through the cold night air with his wand to banish the patronus and turned his thoughts on Lily. It was a bit of difficult to reach her. There was too much for time to have erased; it was something he needed to believe. Yet with every closing of his eyes, he saw _her_  instead. Washed out, but pervasive, she was a lonely type of desire.

He flipped through his memories of Lily and thought hard about her resonating light as she pulled him through an open field. Her hair gleamed in the sun as she turned to look at him. He could see the specks of brown within her green eyes. Inexplicably, he felt pulled into her eyes as matter into a collapsing nova. Brown edged toward green threads and bleed out from her pupils into her image. The girl sighed and came closer to his face. Suddenly, he was lying beside her, his heart pounding loudly. She was no longer Lily.

_"Expecto Patronum!"_

A strange creature, an otter with hoofs formed. Snape gritted his teeth in frustration and tried again. Lily, what was this all for if not Lily? Again, he pulled her image from the depths. He felt her red hair through his fingers as he placed a clip into her hair. She smiled at him and thanked him. The warmth grew within his chest and he let his fingers linger, pulling the strands around his finger. When he relaxed his grip, they stayed in messy brown ringlets. He did not permit himself to indulge further.

_"Expecto Patronum!"_

Again, a chimera ran across the forest floor, more of a doe than otter, but still not correct. Snape suppressed the urge to blast something apart. It would be foolish to alarm the campers stationed close by. He'd come too far to give up now. There was also more at stake here than just his pride. He took a deep breath and began for a fourth time. Truthfully, he could not recall her face well anymore. Every image simply turned into Hermione. This time, he kept his mind clear, turning over the feeling of Lily without seeing her face. It felt like lying to himself.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ "

Finally, a doe dashed from the air. It was oddly foreign image, disappointing despite its silvery beauty, rather like the experience of revisiting a favorite childhood location and discovering it to be much smaller and less impressive than memory had suggested. Such a sensation was one that quickly sowed the seed of doubt. Perhaps the original had never been as memory suggested at all. The doe stared back into him as if it were questioning the purity of his request. He pushed the unpleasant thought away and directed her away toward a small, old tent in the forest. Careful to stay hidden, Snape allowed the doe to slowly drift forward. He stood still behind a curtain of decaying trees, waiting for a boy's arrival. Struggling to keep his mind clear, he waited for Harry Potter.

Soon, rustling amongst the shrubbery alerted his attention the arrival of said Mr. Potter. The boy moved tentatively, still searching for the remnants of the dissipated silver doe. He looked slightly crazed, a mixed product of hunger and delusional hope. The soft blue light of Potter's wand wavered and dropped to the ground as he bent to look into the ice for a sword.

Snape shook his head at the idiocy this entire business. It wasn't the irrationality of the situation that bothered him, it was the absurdity of relying on one hopeless boy. He watched until he was sure Potter had located the sword beneath the ice then departed. The rest was up to the foolish boy and his worthless Gryffindor valor.

Not looking back for a single reassuring glance, the wizard turned and pulled the hood of his thick cloak over his face to shield against the blistering cold. He swept across the forest floor westward, to where he knew Hermione would be, waiting in her little tent. It seemed obvious to him that his desire for her was silly, the delusions of a lonely mind, especially as she remembered nothing of them. But he could not ignore her presence, not when it was so close.

Desperation drove him toward her, as though he had been in a thousand years of darkness and a light suddenly shown where she laid. Finally, after countless steps and unravelled spells, he saw the dingy and soiled tent with fabric doors flapping in the wind. He could barely control his quickening breaths as he stared at the shelter. Snape stood frozen at lengths, conflicted by the thought of entering.

What would he find? Fantasy itself was so strong it felt sickening. The image of her throwing her arms around him played through his mind again and again. He could not move for fear of the dream disappearing, and reality stealing his hope. It was as if opening the tent would take away one more thing precious to him. Eventually, his impulsive side won over the fear.

Snape peeled back the door cautiously and peered into the small room; his chest gave a strange jump when he saw her lying on a cot in the corner, fast asleep. Hermione's hair was greasy and messy, and her bed clothes worn and threadbare. It was painful to see her gaunt and scared, even in dreamscape. The sensation left him angry, but he knew not why.

After casting an illusion about him, he reached for her, pushing hair out of her face. Hermione stirred, blinking in her drowsiness. She lifted her head to see if Harry had woken her. Tired and on edge, the girl glanced around cautiously. Harry was nowhere to be found; perhaps she had dreamed it. Her gaze passed right over where Snape stood hidden but did not stop.

Throat closing in response to the scrutiny, he closed his eyes and steadied himself, willing his beating heart to be silent and his limbs to stay still. What was he doing here? He had agreed to leave her alone and spare her the labeling of being with a sick bastard like himself. But the sight of her, real and tangible sent any resolve of his mind. At that moment, he had never regretted anything as much as casting the fateful Obliviate that robbed her of her love for him. How he longed to dash out and grab her, whispering his apologies for being so selfish.

Taking his wand, he flicked and muttered,  _"Memora Vivere._ "

The young witch seemed dazed for a moment, eyes glossy and empty. Hopes leaping up, Severus shed his charm. Hermione jerked her attention over to him and immediately raised her wand in alarm. She lurched backward on the bed against the tent wall, tangled in her covers.

"Hermione, it's me," he said softly.

"Snape! Keep your distance!" she replied fiercely. There was panic clear in her face; the reversal charm had not worked after all.

" _Memora Vivere!_ " He cast the spell again.

Hermione cleverly shielded herself and stumbled out of bed.

"Hermione," he repeated in his kindest tone, a strange and rusty sound.

The witch turned to run, but she was not fast enough to beat his silent full-body binding hex. Falling down hard, Hermione blinked back the terror in her eyes. It was the look of dreading imminent harm.

" _Memora Vivere_." Snape pointed his wand at her a third, desperate time. Again, her eyes glazed over, but returned immediately to their terrified trembling.

"Hermione, can you not recall?" he whispered as he fell to his knees beside her. Raw-boned hands trembled, unable to express his regret, as they hovered over her face, wanting to touch her but frozen by her clear fear. He felt his insides sink. Here was Hermione lying on the ground before him, as real as ever. Yet there was no comprehension in her brown eyes, no glimpse of the warm way she used to gaze at him.

"Her—" he choked on his quivering words. He couldn't bear her scrutiny.

Emptiness in her mind spoke of the crippling truth that his charm had been far too good. Hermione would never know him as she once did. It was a black hole that sucked all sense, all reason, all will from him. It was as if the only light in his expansive darkness had just been extinguished, and he could no longer see meaning in the world. So draining was this thought that he felt himself pulled forward by the vacuum it created. What he would give for just one day or even one minute.

Raising his wand, he uttered that horrible word once more.

" _Obliviate._ "


	8. The Robes

 

Luna wanted to see the house. The request drew up an uneasy apprehension in Hermione, but she felt obligated to comply. She was allowed into Luna's house to see its new cocoon of a first floor. It was only fair that she extended the same welcome.

"Luna, are you ready?" Hermione called from the kitchen.

When she heard no reply, she leaned back in her chair to glance at Luna's bedroom door and saw her flatmate juggling a mess of shoes and bags while trying to put on her socks. Hermione rolled her eyes. She was used to waiting on her friends; waiting to leave, waiting for them to show up, waiting on their replies to owls. No one knew the meaning of being prompt anymore.

"We're supposed to be there at 10, proper time, not Luna time," She yelled down the hall.

"I'm coming, Hermione!" Luna shouted back.

 

*

 

"Are you sure you want to go in?" She turned and asked Luna.

"Of course!"

Hermione felt her hands shake a bit as she inserted and turned the key. The house felt colder than usual when they entered. It's warped wooden floors creaked beneath their feet as they treaded across the entryway. Wordlessly, Luna moved past her and floated around the mostly empty sitting room to inspect it. She looked around the dim room in wonder as if she were in a museum, her fingers glided along the empty bookshelves and the threadbare sofa's back.

"It's such a strange place. We walked through a rectangle into more rectangles," Luna remarked, fascinated with the lack of curvature in the room. She'd never been inside of a house made of so many right angles before.

Hermione set her bag down on one of the chairs and bit back her desire to hurry her friend along. "It's common in neighborhood like this," she replied, "I've cleaned out all the books though. You should have seen how many more rectangles that was. They were on every inch of the walls."

Luna continued until the window where the thin light of the overcast day washed the color from her pale face. She squinted from the light and glanced down at the sad fern by the corner. Her fingertips traced the rim of the pot as she passed it. "Can I see the rest?" Luna asked casually, eyes still on the plant's broken leaves.

Hermione hesitated to reply, wanting to indulge Luna's curiosity but haunted by the sense of intrusion when a foreign hand touched her plant. "I don't see why not," she forced herself to permit it.

Luna slowly made her way down the hall and to the kitchen, and Hermione trailed her closely. The echo of their steps filled the house with sound, breathing a little more life into the dormant space. Luna briefly glanced in the empty dining room without stopping. But in the kitchen, she lingered at the window, looking out to the back at a giant yew. "You have some visitors," she pointed out to Hermione with a slightly ominous tone.

"What?" Hermione muttered in confusion as she stepped forward to see where her friend was pointing. Three robin birds sat in the yew tree staring back at them. They cocked their heads, as if to get a better view of the girls. Unsettled, Hermione pulled Luna away from the back window.

"Robins are an omen, Hermione," Luna protested, wanting to get another glimpse of the birds.

Hermione arched her neck to see if the birds were still here and instantly shrunk back when they looked back. "They look harmless. Every muggle neighborhood has tons of them."

"Be careful! They choose to rest in places where misfortune will happen. They sense it thru the red patches on their chests." Luna said as she tried to go to the window again. However, Hermione kept a firm hand on her arm and forcibly pulled her away. They had to get back on track.

"That makes no sense. Can we please get to cleaning the basement now?"

"Alright," Luna reluctantly dropped the subject. Her gaze lingered toward the window, clearly still seeking the birds.

"Good," Hermione sighed, relieved that she didn't have to supervise her friend's exploration further. "There's a lot of jars, paper, and rubbish down there to clear out."

They made their way back to the front of the house to the basement door. The stairs down were too narrow for two and Luna followed a few steps behind Hermione. When they reached the bottom, Hermione flipped a light switch and the basement room became brightly lit. A row of tables with cauldrons, artifacts, and ingredients lined one of the walls. There were random pieces of old furniture strewn around in a corner. It all had to go. Hermione pointed to the cauldrons and said, "I'll start there and you can start at the other end of the tables."

The light suddenly went out.

She spun around and the light went on again. Luna was staring at the light switch in wonder.

"What is this magic? It's delightful!"

Hermione grimaced to herself. She'd forgot to explain. The lights went on and off a few more times.

"Stop, Luna," she placed a hand over the switch. "It's a muggle invention. It's called electricity."

"I thought the electricity was painful," her friend declared quizzically.

"No, I mean, yes it can shock you, but you can use it for lights, for machines, for loads of things." Hermione was beginning to regret bringing Luna to the house. "Come on, we have a lot of cleaning to do," she pushed Luna toward the tables.

Reluctantly, Luna obeyed and expanded a box Hermione gave her. Every few seconds, her eye flickered back to the light switch and the light on the ceiling.

"Hermione, where's the bathroom?" she asked.

"Upstairs, to the left." Hermione answered as she set up more boxes and began to clean.

Luna quickly disappeared up the stairs.

First, there was the furniture to dispose of. It was all old and in poor condition. Hermione levitated the items into the largest box and put an extra large extension charm on its bottom. The last of the chairs snagged on the box edge, causing her to have to physically shove it. The chair fell into the box with a crash. She moved to the cauldrons next.

They were in perfectly fine condition so Hermione began a new box for items to keep. She could use these when she began school again in the fall. When they were all neatly stacked, it occurred to her that Luna had been gone an awful long time. She'd probably gotten distracted staring at those stupid birds again.

She turned to face the stairs up and shouted, "Luna, are you alright?"

No reply came back, most likely because the sound did not carry well out of the basement.

Hermione trudged up the stairs. The kitchen was empty, as were the other rooms. When she returned to the hall, she noticed the light was on over the upstairs. When she turned the mid-case corner and looked up, Luna was standing at the top of the stairs, holding something dark in her hands.

"What are you doing?" She spit out with unintentional accusation.

Luna jumped at the harsh tone, her face blank with surprise. "I was just playing with this electricity, and I then noticed these boxes so I thought I'd help you clear…"

"What is that?" Hermione interrupted her brusquely, having not listened to a word. Her attention was fixated on the dark material in Luna's hands.

Luna reached out to show her. "I think it's just robes."

"You shouldn't have touched this," Hermione asserted, sharp and unkind.

She snatched away the heavy material from a speechless Luna with fierce protectiveness, hands clutched the fabric tightly as if she'd fall if she'd let go. They were dress robes by the looks of their hard, carved buttons. For some reason, she was taken by the feel of tight-spun wool, smooth and textured at the same time. The fabric was like a portkey, pulling her in.

Hermione was at once present and completely omniscient, seeing through her eyes, but also through the invisible lens trained on the room. Lavender Brown was draped all over Ron. She turned away in disgust. With her strangely sprawling vision, she spotted a tall boy searching the room and cursed. Ducking behind a dancing pair, she slipped toward the window to avoid Cormac MacLaggen. She looked for someone to occupy her, but everyone was engrossed in their own conversations. There had just been a fuss made about Malfoy trying to crash the party, and the hot gossip was all there was to listen to.

Her eye caught a head of messy, dark hair flying through the crowd toward the door: Harry. Curious, she started after him. Her leg suddenly caught on something that let out a loud "ouf". Hermione looked down and saw that she'd accidentally knocked over Professor Flitwick. Mortified, she quickly helped him up. Flitwick stumbled and searched for his wine glass, unaware that it'd spilled somewhere beneath his feet.

"I am so sorry, professor," Hermione offered.

Flitwick waved her helping hand away and swayed a bit. "You young people are all the same, never noticing anyone but yourself," he ranted dismissively, a very uncharacteristic tone for the small wizard. Clearly overserved, he took a few uneasy steps toward the bar, completely ignoring Hermione.

Returning her gaze to the door, she searched for Harry's head. The distraction caused her precious seconds and he was already gone. A cheery Cormac caught her eyes and flashed a goofy grin as he gestured for her to join him. Hermione gave a look of horror and squeezed herself toward the door faster than before. Once she reached the door, the witch did not hesitate to slip away unnoticed. The silence of the hallway was a welcome feeling.

She caught the shadow of Harry disappearing around a corner and ran after him. She thought about how miserable the evening was. Ron and that stupid Lavender. Obnoxious Cormac constantly following her. Harry breaking the rules again. Her friends too deep into their own lives to even ask her what was wrong. Sometimes it really felt like she had no one, that everyone was drifting away from her, and she was helpless to stop it.

Down near the boys bathroom, she heard a commotion. There were agitated voices and the sound of hurried steps. Hermione stopped to listen but could not make out any words. She tried to inched closer to the corner, but it was lit by bright moonlight and she could not continue without being seen. A clock chimed eleven somewhere down the hall, resonant sound filling the dark arches.

The steps continued, moving softly further from her in the other direction. Hermione tiptoed forward and peeked around the corner but was pulled backward. Before she could yell, a hand covered her mouth. Harry put a finger to his lips to signal her to quiet. Nodding, Hermione prepared to ask him what he was doing but was quickly shushed by steps coming toward them. They both leaned around the corner. It was Malfoy and Snape. They moved at arms length, clearly resentful of each other. It looked as though the boy was limping slightly, but in the darkness, Hermione couldn't quite be sure. The light of Malfoy's hair gleamed as he made a left and out of their sight. Snape stopped for a minute and seemed to stare after him for a split second before he followed.

Harry cursed under his breath and prepared to follow them, only to be stopped by Hermione's tight grip on his robes.

"We're not supposed to be out here!" she whispered seriously.

Rolling his eyes, Harry replied, "Hermione, when has that ever been a problem? They're up to something. We can follow them. If they split up, I've got Malfoy, you get Snape."

"But I don't want to—"

Harry held his finger up to his lips again. He looked around the hallway and then signalled for them to move forward. The steps were becoming harder and harder to hear and they would soon lose them. Harry quickly headed after them. With a groan of frustration, she darting out after him and quickly folding herself into the shadows. It took a few turn before they caught up. At the end of a long hall, Malfoy stomped into the bathroom as Snape stood with folded arms. The professor shouted after his student and waited a moment before leaving him be. Harry pointed for her to go after him as he headed for the bathroom.

Shaking her head, Hermione stood rooted to the ground. Harry waved for her to proceed and scampered down the stairs. Now alone, she debated whether to move or return to the party. Surely there was nothing going on. It was awfully difficult to sneak around in her dress and fancy shoes, but she had the feeling it meant a lot to Harry. She was sorely short of friendship at the moment and decided for better or worse to oblige his request.

As Hermione tip toed down the hall, she managed to see the edge of Snape's robes before losing him around a corner. Staying close to the stone, she followed him from afar as he continued down the corridors and up some stairs. It took Hermione what seemed endless minutes to reach the top without making a great deal of noise. By the time she'd reached the top, he'd disappeared entirely. She went down the hall trying to catch a glimpse of his black robes, but could not see anything. Doubling back to the middle of the hall, she curse her own lack of ability. Maybe it was time to just give up.

Hermione quietly made her way back to the top of the stairs. Before she had barely taken two steps down, she heard a scratching sound, stone grinding on stone. Moving back up to take a look, it took her by surprise that it was the gargoyle door to Dumbledore's office opening. Hermione quickly turned back around the corner as to not be seen. Her feet were unsteady in the darkness.

"Ungrateful old goat…" She heard Snape hissed hatefully.

The unexpectedly loud noise startled Hermione. She jerked, her wand falling out of her hand and bounced down the stairs, making hollow clicks as it hit every step on its way. Bright blue light suddenly glared in her face, blinding her. The witch threw her hands over her eyes, disoriented by the shock.

"Granger?" the voice announced angrily, "You better explain yourself."

"I—" she stammered, squinting at the light. He seemed to zoom forward with lightning speed, instantly in front of her.

"On second thought, I don't care! Get out of my sight before I take more points from Gryffindor than you can imagine!" he yelled impatiently. She shrunk back in fear.

"Go!" Snape shoved her shoulder, forcefully pushing her to move. Still bleary and disoriented, Hermione's foot stepped back absently, just missing the edge of the step. The tall heel of her left shoe caught the vertical pane of stone, and Hermione fell backward with a yelp. She grabbed onto his sleeve but the fine weave of his dress robes was too slippery for her to get a good grip. In a flash, her shoulder smacked against the bannister painfully, and she tumbled a few steps down, unable to protect herself without a wand.

She whimpered, trying to move, but unable to exert much effort due to the aching everywhere. A sharp pain radiated out from her left ankle. Vaguely, she could feel the sharp edges of the steps digging into her back. A blue light flew up to the hall ceiling, illuminating everything. Snape rushed down to her crumpled form on the stairs, cursing loudly. He looked positively murderous as he bent down to help her.

"I think I've broken something," Hermione sniffed, trying not to cry.

"Don't be dramatic," he shot back at her harshly, using his wand to help her sit upright.

Hermione winced as she tried to get up, pulling on her professor's robes for support, but folding over in pain as soon as she placed pressure on her left foot.

"Do not try to stand, you stupid girl. Stay still!" he commanded coldly. With a wave of his wand, she felt herself levitating into the air, her back supported by an invisible cradle. He lifted her up the stairs and walked alongside to deliver her to the infirmary.

"I'm sorry to inconvenience you, sir," she offered on their way.

He gave her an annoyed look and said nothing.

When they reached the infirmary, he floated her above a bed and dropped her into it carelessly. Hermione hissed in pain when her foot hit the rod iron bed post and shot him an irritated glare. Pushing against the sheets, she slide back to give herself enough room to take her uncomfortable shoes off.

Snape sneered at her discomfort as if to say it served her right. "Madam Pomfrey will be in shortly. I'm certain she will be thrilled at having her evening spoiled."

As he turned to leave, she reached to grasp his arm for his attention, and her fingers caught on the hard buttons of his sleeve instead. He jerked his hand away from her, incredulous that she'd have the audacity to do such a thing. "I didn't mean to," she quickly supplied, "I just was wondering if you could—"

He narrowed his eyes at her and dared her to finish her request. Hermione felt her insides turn to water and pressed her lips together.

"Ten points from Gryffindor. I am not your servant, Granger," he spat out, scowling at her until she shrank back against the headboard.

Satisfied that she was sufficiently silenced, he swept out of the infirmary without a second look at her. Hermione stared after him and watched as his dark robes and shadow disappeared over the doorway. The eerie stillness of the empty infirmary was like temperamental dark matter, resonating and drawing worries and unease back into her head. She could still feel the soft twill of his robes and wished he could have stayed with her to keep the unhappy thoughts at bay.

 

*

 

"Hermione, I'm sorry?" Luna uttered in a meek voice, uncertain of what she'd really done wrong.

The walls were spinning. Her ankle hurt. Hermione looked down at her hands and saw that her knuckles were white from clutching the black fabric so tightly. With a sharp breath in, she dropped the robes as thought they were burning her. She looked up and was met with Luna's confused and concerned face. "This—" she began, but could not find any words to address the situation.

"Hermione?" Luna tilted her head and regarded her with intense concern. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I—" she tried again to no avail. Hermione felt her anxiety building. She suddenly couldn't remember what it was that she was supposed to be doing. Her thoughts were disjointed and drifting, causing the pit of her stomach to sink and turn. Someone was talking to her but she couldn't comprehend the words enough to reply. It was as if her mind had been placed in a shoddy, poor approximation of a real body. The ears took in sound, but the signals to her brain were all scrambled.

"I don't think this house is good for you," Luna said softly, "You've been odd since you started coming here. Sometimes there is something wrong with the places we are given."

Yes, there was something very wrong.

"I need you to leave," Hermione breathed, her voice shaky and weak.

Luna furrowed her brow. "But you don't seem well."

"Get out!" Hermione shouted. She shuddered, shocked by her own sudden viciousness upon seeing Luna twitch in response.

"Please just go," she pleaded desperately.


	9. The Teacup

Hermione waited until she heard Luna close the front door to move. She gathered up the box of robes and roughly shoved them into the bedroom's closet, slamming its door closed with unnecessary force.

Allowing herself a moment to calm down, she sat on the bed and stared at the closet door for what felt an eternity. When her hands had stopped shaking, she was able to think again. A gnawing voice told her she ought to burn the box if she knew what was good for herself. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. She was afraid of the box, the house, but morbidly fascinated, like a child confronted by a dying animal.

With a sigh, she decided to go downstairs again.

The main floor was unusually still without Luna's lively presence. Hermione felt an involuntary shudder raise the hair on her neck as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Perhaps it was time for some tea; it always helped her in the past. Trying hard to not focus on the echos of her steps, she drifted toward the kitchen.

A precarious tower of mismatched teacups greeted her when she opened one of the cabinets and she gingerly lifted the top one, careful not to topple the rest. Beside the cups was a single glass jar of tea. Earl grey cornflower, she guessed from the blue specks interspersed in dark leaves and familiar floral scent. She pulled the jar down and set it beside the stained, metal kettle.

No matter how hard she looked, there were no strainers or infusers in any of the drawers. She resolved to just dump the loose leaf right in the kettle. So uncouth, her mother would have said if she witnessed such laziness. Once the stove was lit, she sat down at the small kitchen table to wait for the whistle of water boiling.

Feeling fidgety, she played with the teacup, feeling the smooth curve of its handle and the raised pattern of diamonds along its body. Turning it over, she tried to read the manufacturer's print but couldn't make out the miniscule stamp. To her relief, the kettle screeched that it was done in no time.

A quick wave of her wand levitated the kettle to the table. Hermione directed it to pour gently, but her wand work was a bit off and accidentally overfilled the cup. A tiny amount ran down the rim of the cup. Cursing to herself, she sent the kettle back to the stove. With a careful hand, she lifted the cup and sipped the hot liquid to prevent more spilling. When she set the cup down, she noticed the watermark left behind. There seemed to be a small chip in the cup bottom she'd not seen before that was apparent from the imperfect ring left on the table. Serves her right for not using a saucer.

The feeling of the chipped gap against her finger was oddly comforting. She thought about how she could control the damage she'd caused. Should she explain to Luna that she was having the odd experience of remembering random, inconsequential pieces of the past year? Hermione held her tea and contemplated what she'd say for a few long minutes before deciding it was too difficult to explain.

She took another sip of her plain tea and thought about the house and the man who used to own it. He liked his tea like this, untainted by adulterants that made it palatable to the weak.

 

*

 

Hermione was running late to her apparition lesson.

When she got the Great Hall, Harry and Ron were already holding their wooden hoops. In boredom, they pretended to fight each other with the rickety wooden things. Hermione rolled her eyes and summoned one from the pile for herself before moving to stand next to Ron. He gave a sheepish grin which she promptly ignored in a dramatic air. Despite pretending to not care, she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

Wilkie Twycross from the ministry stood at the front of the room trying to count the students, stopping to run his hand in his wispy white hair whenever he lost track and had to start over again. McGonagall stood next to him, looking concerned with his inability to accomplish the simple task. After three tries, she finally leaned over and whispered, "It's 46, Mr. Twycross."

"Oh good, all here," he remarked, then proceeded to scratch something on his notepad.

"Students!" he began the lesson brightly, "Remember the three D's. Destination, Determination, Deliberation. Let's all set the hoops in front of you and begin. I often think of myself as turning into air, then turning back."

He and the other teachers began to move around the room to watch for splinching as the students began to practice. When he passed Susan Bones, he patted her on the back and said, "Good to see your leg has recovered from last time." Susan gave him a quiet, embarrassed look, causing him to make a nervous noise before rushing away.

As their instructor approached where Hermione, Ron, and Harry were, he beamed at them. Ron groaned and closed his eyes, clenching his hands into fists to make a show of his effort. The old wizard nodded satisfactorily in return. Hermione snorted at Ron half-hearted theatrics and mentally made a note to try harder. When she knew he was watching, she squinted in concentration and tried to disapparate. Then the image of Susan Bones leaving her leg behind crawled into her mind. Hermione nervously glanced around the room looking to see where the heads of houses were and if they were close enough to help her if she too splinched.

McGonagall was far away, at the other end of the Great Hall. Much too distant to help her. Sprout was fairly close, just a few students away. Flitwick was half way across the room, throwing encouraging compliments to some students. Snape was...not in the room.

Hermione disapparated with a loud crack. The entire room turned around and stared at where she'd been. She'd left behind her shoes and socks. When she did not appear inside of her hoop or anywhere in the hall, Wilkie Twycross put a hand on his stomach and loudly sighed, "Oh dear."

 

*

 

Hermione stumbled, disoriented. Her hand found something vertically solid and she hung onto it for dear life. The world was spinning to a stop and she could see that under her hand was a doorframe. Her eye wandered and she gasped when she saw Snape sitting behind his desk, bewildered. She was in the doorway of his office, out of balance and having a hard time keeping herself from falling into the room.

Her professor was in the middle of grading the viciously difficult essay on dementors that had half the class complaining non-stop. His quill was paused in mid-sentence as he stared at her, red ink pooling in an unsightly blot.

"I am so sorry to interrupt..." she struggled to find something to say that didn't sound stupid.

Snape put his quill down and leaned forward in feigned interest. His eyes lingered at the floor when he noticed her feet and he smirked. Sarcasm saturated every biting word as he addressed her in mock seriousness, "Good heavens, Granger, what earth shattering news you must have that it compelled you to forget your own shoes."

Hermione looked down at her bare feet and winced, "I've had a bit of an apparating accident."

Folding his arms, he considered her explanation with a raised eyebrow. "Shall I tell that to Mr. Thomas who will get a C because his essay is now illegible?" he sneered as he gestured down to the parchment's minor flood of red ink.

"That's hardly fair!" Hermione protested, "Take the points from me!"

Snape rolled his eyes, disgusted with her outburst of righteousness. "Your selfless courage is sickening, Granger. Get out of here before that toad from the ministry thinks you've apparated into the lake and died."

"But Professor Snape, what about Dean—"

He held up a hand to stop her. "Mr. Thomas was always going to receive a C."

 

*

 

Hermione ran all the way back to the Great Hall, oddly energized by her exchange. When she eagerly pushed the doors open, she was greeted by a collective gasp. Nervous from the sudden attention, she gave a little wave and ran to where her shoes were waiting for her. The room erupted in cheers.

The teachers swooped in and surrounded her before she could get a word in with Ron and Harry. They patted her on the back, congratulated her, worried about her, all in a chorus of conflicting sounds. Hermione could only nod, not catching any one person's full sentence. She couldn't help but smile, savoring the attention and praise.

"Where did you go?" Harry had finally wedged himself into the circle and asked her loudly from behind.

Hermione turned and replied, "Just the middle of the 3rd floor hall." She felt too embarrassed by what happened to tell the truth.

"It's quite a feat, Miss Granger," interjected Wilkie Twycross, who was now ushering everyone away.

"Thanks, I guess." Hermione crouched down to put her shoes back on.

Ron inched over and inquired, "What's the secret, Hermione? Can you teach it to me and Harry?"

Once her socks and shoes were firmly on, she straightened and gave Ron a skeptical look. Always looking for shortcuts, the two of them. It's a wonder they didn't flunk their exams altogether. "There's no secret, Ron. You just have to want it. Practice the three D's."

"Blimey, she's in a mood today," Ron whispered to Harry, "How's that supposed to help? I barely know what deliberation means."

Before she could chastise them for making fun of her, the apparition instructor put a hand on Hermione's shoulder and pulled her away. He fixed his dull, grey eyes on hers and pointed at the hoop still lying on the ground. "You are very gifted, Miss Granger. Few come so close so quickly. Give it another try."

She hesitated, unsure about how much she wanted to try immediately. He gave her an expectant nod. Others were now staring at her too. Feeling pressure, Hermione acquiesced and looked at the hoop. It was so stupidly close. Trying to clear her mind, she focused her attention on it and repeated the three D's to herself.

"Yes, Miss Granger. Feel the deliberation," her instructor encouraged.

_That toad from the ministry..._

Hermione chuckled involuntarily and disapparated again with a crack.

Her hand was on the doorframe again. The room was the same dark office she'd just left not too long ago. Sitting behind his desk was Snape, once again staring at her, frozen in place. He was holding a cup of tea in one hand, a newspaper in the other, and giving her a quizzical look.

"Oh this is mortifying," she uttered and mouthed a curse to herself. At least there were shoes on her feet this time.

He set it down in its saucer. "I'm beginning to suspect this is intentional, Miss Granger," he complained.

Hermione shook her head vehemently and insisted, "Absolutely not! I would never! You see, professor, I was trying to disapparate and then I started to laugh because of what you said about Mr. Twycross being a toad. And I guess I lost where I was trying to go."

He set his paper down and tinkered with the raised diamond pattern on the tea cup. Instead of the anger she'd expected, he seemed amused by her unfortunate lapse in focus. Silently, he regarded her, a finger on his thin lips. Hermione stiffened and wondered if she was to receive detention for repeatedly interrupting his day. When he continued said nothing, she stood rooted to the ground, uncertain as to if she should just leave or explain further.

"I'm sorry?" she offered weakly.

"You apologize too much," he snapped.

Hermione's breath hitched in surprise. Perhaps she'd misheard him.

"I don't..."

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Stop apologizing when you have nothing better to say," he admonished as he shook his head. "It only tells others you are afraid, that you are weak, the first to break when confronted with silence."

Hermione frowned at the insinuation that she had a flaw. She was not afraid. She was not afraid. Feeling the strong compulsion to prove him wrong with posturing, she strode forward to the empty chair with extra purpose. Before she sat down, she impulsively made a show of defiance by snatching up the teapot on his desk and pouring a cup for herself. She could feel his judging eyes following her hands as she reached for the cup to drink.

"Should I pour you some too?" she dared.

When he failed to reply, Hermione shrugged and drank the hot liquid, grimacing at its sharp bitterness. Normally she preferred quite a bit of sugar but there was none in sight. Snape took in her irreverent gesture with more curiosity than true irritation and laughed, "A just reward for your petulance."

Hermione set the cup directly on his desk and pushed it away, not wanting to drink more.

"Well, now, Miss Granger," he mocked, "Don't tell me you have changed your mind and now want to waste this cup of perfectly good tea."

She made a face, annoyed at herself for letting her pride corner her. In any other circumstance, she'd give in and just drink the damn thing. But the way he looked at her expectantly, challenging her to say something clever, made her feel lose rationality. "Shouldn't I be going before they think I've apparated into the lake and died?" she shot back.

Judging by the twitch at the corner of his lips, she knew she'd not gone too far. When his gaze flickered back to the paper momentarily, she figured he'd read a piece of good news and was in rare spirits. She felt brave enough to add, "If you could summon two sugars..."

"You are becoming too familiar, Granger," he warned her, but there was no maliciousness in his voice.

"Does that mean you're inviting me for tea next Saturday?" she ventured even further.

He raise an eyebrow at her nerve and smirked.


	10. The Sickness

**Sept 1997**

The owl in his window pecked at his hand impatiently as he opened the brief message it'd carried. A shiver went down his spine as he read the long, leaning script of Narcissa Malfoy

" _Potter has broken into the ministry. The dark lord requests you stay behind._ "

If Potter was at the ministry then that meant—

He threw the note on his desk with excessive force. The owl glared at him, still seeking a reward for flying so quickly to deliver the message. Snape paid him no attention, lost in his thoughts.  _Stay behind._ How could he when  _she_  was in imminent danger? The nasty habit of pacing started and he travelled back and forth like a trapped goldfish in the tiny bowl of his office. He needed to go to the ministry. But he knew better than to defy orders. The dark lord would kill him in a heartbeat for insubordination.

The owl shrieked at him, and he stopped mid-step. His dark eyes flashed with anger. Stupid creature. Unfazed, the bird cocked its head to look at him expectantly and shrieked again. That was the last straw. Snape grabbed the bird with one hand went to the nearest window. Without hesitation, he flung it open and cast the protesting bird out.

Still angry, he grabbed the nearest object, a decorative telescope Dumbledore had left behind, and threw it against the wall. The metal tube clanked loudly while it's glass pieces made a shattering cry. It was worthless anyway. Worthless like everything else the old man had left him.

This was his divine fate, to be eternally dissatisfied. To know but be unable to act, to want but be unable to have. Loathing fed his anger as he turned his hate on everything, most of all himself for being afraid of the things he loved. His hardened gaze drew him to the bowl of floo powder by the fireplace. He envisioned himself running his fingers through the fine grain of green powder. It would be so easy…

"Headmaster!" a voice huffed from the other room.

Shaking off the idea, he made his way over to alcove containing the wall of portraits. There was never a moment of peace with all these paintings buzzing around all the time.

"Headmaster!" someone on the wall called out again.

All of the previous headmasters were now alert and chattering to each other in excitement, making it hard to tell who was calling. Various bits of phrases like "pay attention" and "speak up, I can't hear" were being thrown around. Snape put a hand on his temple and tried to concentrate.

"Silence!"

The chorus of portraits all stopped immediately.

"Up here!" the voice called, still out of breath.

He raised his head and scanned the wall until he saw Phineas Nigellus Black waving madly at him. The old man's long beard was all blown around, as though he'd just come from a long run.

"They've escaped capture at the ministry," he managed to wheeze out before need taking several more deep breaths. "Potter and the other two, the boy and the mudblood. I heard it all. Quite a commotion."

"Don't call her that," Snape interrupted him sharply.

Phineas Nigellus Black scowled at being corrected by someone so much much his junior.

"Are they unharmed?" The question rushed out a bit too fast, betraying excessive concern.

There was a bit of silence as the painting finally calmed down and inhaled normally. "The Weasley boy splinched on his way out but he'll live. They're in a forest, couldn't make it back to the house. Something about being tracked or followed. Serves them right for defiling my portrait and soiling my property!" the former headmaster answered resentfully. His regal face was etched with annoyance as he folded his arms and glowered down.

Snape considered the information carefully, tapping his chin impatiently. "Is Miss Granger alright?"

"Still obnoxious and miserable."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to retain his composure. "Is she alright," he repeated, raising his voice slightly.

"Quit your obsession; she's fine."

Snape shot the old man's portrait a venomous glare. "Good, now go back and keep an eye on them." He was not obsessed...

"I'm not going back to that wretched bag until I've had my rest." The portrait's tone was indignant and sour.

"I am not asking, Headmaster Black." Snape raised his wand in threat. Leave it to these privileged bastards to complain about even the smallest discomfort. Phineas Nigellus Black let out a string of expletives and pushed his head forward so much that he could have come out of his portrait.

"You should show more respect to your elders, boy!"

"Let the man rest, Severus. He's clearly had an eventful morning," Dumbledore added as he wagged a finger from his frame.

The wall erupted as all the portraits urged similar messages of restraint.

"Enough!"

Snape stalked out the alcove to be out of the portraits' view. How badly he wanted to just burn all of their canvases and watch their painted faces melt into puddles. Those old fools, always second guessing him and muttering behind his back.

When he sat down at his desk, he looked at his hands and willed them to stop shaking. She was fine, he reasoned with himself, she had no need of him. But the thought of her out there, afraid and alone, in some chilly autumn forest made his chest hurt. Not alone, the nagging voice in his head corrected, with her friends. Her soft voice drifted like a breeze.

" _All that we really have are the people we care for."_

All we have. But he didn't really have her, he grimaced bitterly. At a loss of words, he stared at the house key sitting in a small ceramic bowl on his desk. She used to play with it when she couldn't keep her hands still. The trace of her fingers over its metal teeth haunted his thoughts. He missed her irritating curiosity terribly. Missed the way she pushed her luck. To go to her now…

No.

He stopped himself. It was foolish to think of such memories. The horror on her face when she realized what he meant to do kept replaying despite his best efforts. Every repeat of her image corrupted the copy. A wave of nausea suddenly overwhelmed him. It was a sort of nausea deep within a body's core, a sensation so heavy and so embedded it sucked his insides inward like a void. Gritting his teeth, he tried to clear his mind.

 _Hermione._ It was imperative he stayed away. He was beginning to doubt she ever really cared for him. The nausea whispered, it was all in his own head. His thoughts were illusions like a wax museum, realistic until a real person breaks the motionless scene with grace that no replica could capture. What could he give her anyway? He was a dead man with nothing to offer except the torment of his attention. She would never admit it, but she would grow to resent him. Having nothing was better than having her scorn.

"Headmaster!"

Again! Would the interruptions never cease? The voice calling this time was urgent and harsh, coming from the door of his office. Without opening, he could tell there was more than one person behind the door. The shuffling and muffled voices gave the impression it was a bit of a crowd. Snape sighed and waved the stone gargoyles open with a flick of his wand.

The lumpy shape of Amycus Carrow staggered in, followed by several students whose hands were tied in front of them. He pushed one of them forward toward the headmaster. The poor girl fell onto the hard ground, clumsy and stiff without her hands to help her balance. Her long, red hair spilled all around as her head hit the floor. When she looked up, her eyes on fire and full of hate.

"I caught these students trying to break into my office, Headmaster. How should I publish them?" Carrow asked excitedly, his face twisting into a crooked grin as he tightened his grip on the next student's shoulder.

"How many times do I have to say it, Amycus," Snape hissed, "You cannot tie the students up."

"But headmaster, they broke into my—"

"They are students, not livestock!" This was beginning to give him a headache. The idiot just couldn't figure out how to intimidate without inflicting physical harm. Just his luck that the dark lord gave him the dull crayons at the bottom of the intelligence barrel.

"What should I do then, sir?" Carrow gave a perplexed expression and scratched his left temple. It didn't seem obvious to him that there was much difference between students and livestock.

"Well, untie them!"

"You mean now?"

Snape shot him an exasperated look and yelled with thunderous rage, "Yes, now, you imbecile!"

Carrow squinted against the spittle flying in his face. He made a noise of discontent as he moved to undo the ropes tying the students' hands. The girl on the ground made an attempt to get up and he instinctively put a foot on her back to keep her down. She let out a painful sound when he pressed down on her ribs. He was about to send his shoe into her side when a sharp call stopped him mid-kick.

"Amycus!"

He turned to the headmaster and put his foot back down when confronted by murderous eyes. Snape shoved him to the side and bent down to help the girl up. She shied away from his hands and tried to get up without his help. When he grabbed her arm, she yanked it away forcefully and pulled herself up, fury still brewing in her clear eyes.

"Don't try my patience, Miss Weasley."

"I don't want your patience," she spat back, "Kiss my—" Before she could finish, Ginny Weasley doubled over in pain as a curse hit her. Carrow stood with his wand out, leering in satisfaction at finally having gotten to hex his least favorite student. Ginny collapsed to the ground and cradled her arm where the curse hit her. She struggled to not cry.

"Cease this!" Snape bellowed, "You are not allowed to curse the students. Don't make me snap your wand."

The death eater lowered his wand but looked unconvinced. "But why?"

"Because they are children!  _Children_ , you simpleton."

"Children that deserve to be punished," Carrow supplied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Perhaps to him it was.

Snape blew out a long breath in defeat. There was no amount of reason that was going to work here. Some people were just hopeless. He turned to the terrified students and said sternly, "Two weeks detention for all of you. You'll be shoveling the stables. Now get out of my sight!"

Amycus Carrow huffed indignantly and walked out first. The students stayed back and crowded around Ginny Weasley to help her up. As they support her out of the office, Snape studied the way she moved, self-assured but with an undercurrent of insecurity. It was something that he saw in his students often. Old enough to think they know how the world works, but young enough to be unsure. Just like her.

Like  _Her—_

He took another look at the girl, and it occurred to him how young they were. They were just  _children_. His nausea returned and he stumbled backward, gripping the edge of his desk to keep from falling. The room spun. His vision swam and his stomach turned.

The nausea was growing as his revulsion amplified. It was wrong to feel this way, to covet the gaze of a  _child_. He felt like he was suffering from sickness. Like a latent infection, it came and went but would always haunt and never truly heal.

But it was different, what was between them was different.

Wasn't it?

He couldn't tell.


	11. The Photograph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year everyone!

A rosewood box in the second bedroom caught her attention as she stumbled passed it while dragging old blankets and pillows out. It sat in the corner, haphazardly placed behind the door as though it had been once used as a doorstop. The well-oiled wood gleamed in the low light, beckoning her eye. But it was odd though, that an item which looked like well cared-for was used for such a lowly purpose.

She'd learned to be careful with the objects in the house, but curiosity got the better of her and she opened it. Inside was a single picture, corners worn down with age and handling.

The picture looped over and over as Hermione stared at it. A girl in it waved before entering a door and closing it behind her. Through the aging sepia tone, she could still make out the the bright light in her eyes as she smiled. Her wrists were angular and boney like they often were in children who had grown too much overnight. Flipping the picture over, Hermione looked for a description of its context. All that was written on the back was "L.E. 1975", faded and barely legible.

1975 was a long time ago. Hermione wrinkled her brow as she tried to decode what the initials meant. It occurred to her that this was Lily Evans, back when she and Snape must have been friends. The resemblance against Harry's photos of his mother was strong, her jaw slimmer but her face full of the same kindness. Her mind wandered, and she began to wish she could get the mirror photo from Lily's point of view, to see what a young Severus Snape had looked like.

Something was odd about the picture, though. Something that she couldn't place. The image was familiar in that hazy way that an old episode of television was, image recognizable but plot unknown.

"Granger!"

Hermione jumped at the harsh sound and automatically sat on her hand to hide the photo. She remained glued in the chair, his chair, like a deer caught in lights.

"You seem to be on the wrong side of the desk."

"I am— " she started, but shut her mouth to stem the strong impulse to say sorry. He rolled his eyes at her ridiculous reply.

Feeling panicked at being caught nosing through his things, Hermione quickly filled the silence and added, "The elves left the tray of tea on the other chair because your desk is full of parchment. I didn't know where to sit."

Snape scowled and turned around to close the office door. Taking the opportunity of his inattention, she quickly snuck the photograph back into the rosewood box on his desk corner and sat on her hands again. Her nervous heart thumped loudly, threatening to throw her guilty conscience into the open. When her professor turned back, he folded his arms and waited.

"Well?"

Giving him a confused look, she lingered for a moment before realizing she was still in his chair. She jump up with a surprised 'oh' and circled the desk to get out of his way as he strode to sit down. Trouble was, the tray of scones and tea was still occupying the chair across from his. Hermione lifted up the wooden tray and looked around for a place to put it. The desk was littered with various stacks of parchment, uncharacteristically messy for a customarily neat man.

"Where should I put this?" she asked, arms getting tired of holding the heavy load.

Snape held up a hand, gesturing for her to wait; he seemed to be inspecting his desk to verify that she had not touched anything. When he was satisfied that nothing was out of place, he moved a pile of essays onto another similarly disorganized pile to make room. Nervousness overtook Hermione as she leaned over the desk to set the tray down. The spot he'd cleared called for her to turn the tray 90 degrees. To do so forced her into his personal space, one hand inches from him. Her stomach fluttered irrationally from the proximity and she couldn't help her eyes flicking to the small box with the photograph.

Just ask, she thought. She wanted to know who it was. So badly.

When she moved to pour the tea, her mind was distracted and hot prince-of-wales spilled past the teacup onto the saucer below. Before she could set the heavy pot back down, his hand was on hers, cold and steady as his fingers wrapped around hers to gripped the handle and take the pot from her. When the heavy pot was fully in his control, Hermione pulled her hand back, stunned by the shock of his touch.

"Your inability to complete simple tasks is astounding," he berated her as he poured the tea for both of them.

Sitting down in her seat, she stayed silent, not knowing what to say. Absently, she picked a tarnished key from a bowl of random objects on the corner of his desk and played with it, running her thumb down the ridges of its teeth. But it only served to make her more nervous so she dropped it back where she found it. So out of sorts was Hermione that she almost failed to catch the saucer as he handed her the tea. Her hand trembled a bit, at once excited and unsettled by the possibility to brushing against his again.

"Thank you," she muttered, careful to not drop the cup of hot tea on his desk.

"You are quite preoccupied. What upsetting thoughts do you have now, Miss Granger?"

"None, sir," she replied a bit too quickly. Realizing how stupid that sounded, she offered a bit more, "I'm having a bit of trouble with my essay on petrification. I think you've given an unfair assignment."

He sipped his team and dug around his desk for something as he said, "That is because you lack imagination."

"I do not," Hermione protested with an offended tone. As she drank her tea, she tried to calm herself. Best to not be provoked so easily.

"Of course. You think just because you've spent a lot of time contemplating something that you must have the correct answers and exhausted all possible solutions. I'll prove it to you." He lifted a stack of papers and fished out a quill. Casually lifting the top page from his grading pile, he flipped it over and moved to write on its back.

"But that's someone's essay!"

Snape gave her a weary look and drawled, "I'm doubtful this dullard will notice."

She pressed her lips into a thin line and watched as he drew a series of dots which comprised a pyramid, a single dot at the top and four at the bottom. Unsure of what he was trying to show, she leaned forward to get a better look. He thrusted the parchment in from of her and gave her the quill.

"Turn this pyramid upside down by moving only three of the dots. You have one minute."

"What?"

A confused look cross her face as she furrowed her brow.

He glanced at the clock behind her, "It seems you now only have 58 seconds."

"But I don't know what this is for—"

"55 seconds."

Hermione huffed with displeasure and hastily grabbed the quill and began to draw alternative permutations to solve the puzzle, determined to beat his challenge. There were few things in life she relished as much as putting someone in their place by proving them wrong. But this time she wasn't having much luck. No matter what she tried, she couldn't remake the shape using only three moves. Scratching at the page, she focused on it with a twisted type of athleticism.

"Time is up," Snape said as he snatched the quill from her hand abruptly.

Still trying to mentally draw, she thought about it and unhappily concluded, "You're just testing me to be cruel. It's an impossible task."

He raised an eyebrow and sneered triumphantly, "You think it is impossible because you can't complete it?"

"Can you do it?" she returned, tone full of spite. Mad at herself that her answer had proved his point, Hermione grabbed her tea and drank it to hide her displeasure. This puzzle was silly; puzzles were for babies anyway. It had nothing to do with anything.

Reaching forward, he drew lines connecting the dots into a perimeter. "If you stopped to consider the mathematics of this, you would have noticed the sides of this triangle are all the same, that means the edges and vertices are interchangeable," he explained as he scrawled three more dots along the sides, "But that is hardly the point of this."

The simplicity of the solution made her mentally kick herself. It was so easy, so obvious, now that she'd seen it. Just a rotation of the three points. But he was right that the solution wasn't the lesson he was trying to teach her, the way she felt when she found her answer was wrong was the point. Annoyed, she replied bitterly, "Fine, I get it. I'm not always right. I should consider my own limitation. I guess no one can see what's wrong with themselves, and everyone else can see it right away."

"What is that piece of cryptic drivel supposed to mean?"

"You don't know what's wrong with you either," she lashed out, setting her teacup down with a clatter as if to emphasize her point.

"And do tell, what is wrong with me?" he pressed.

A cautioning voice in the back of head told her that it was childish of her to pick a fight with him, but she couldn't help herself. It wasn't fair of him to lecture her when his own shortcomings were so numerous. Who was he to lord things over her all the time? Hermione stared at him, matching his intense gaze with the determination of her own.

"I don't know—"

His dark eyes narrowed in interest.

"-where to begin."

Now he was really interested.

She steeled her spine to sit a bit taller and continued, "You don't know how to apologize because you think it's always someone else's fault."

A moment of silence passed as he regarded her with unreadable eyes. She'd hit on something perhaps too close to home. It was hard to tell if he was angry or not, and she felt the air grow tense as he tilted his head to study her face. Refusing to be rattled, Hermione sat still and stared back with equal resolve.

"I'm  _sorry_  you feel that way."

He placed extra emphasis on the word 'sorry' was a mock attempt to disprove her accusation. What struck her was not his voice though, it was the way he smirked as he said it. There was a lightness and charm to his words that was extraordinarily disarming, causing the seriousness of their exchange to instantly evaporate. The tension was suddenly gone and Hermione laughed, unable to help herself. He'd both proved her point and dismissed it with a single line.

In that moment, she'd forgotten all about what else she was trying to say. Later, in hindsight, she dwelled on how skillful he was at deflecting, how easily and cleverly he could derail any conversation that got too close. Perhaps he was bothered by what she'd said; he'd not let on at all. She found herself envious of such a skill, wishing that she too could hide her discomfort rather than wearing it on her face the moment she felt anything.

Restless, her fingers turned the photograph over and over, back to front, front to back. She regretted not having the nerve to bring it up. Now it was something she'd never know.

 

*

 

"Harry! Over here!"

Hermione waved at him from the counter and pointed down to a butter beer she'd already ordered for him. Her friend squinted at her and paused before going over. He gave her an all encompassing hug when he reached her that made her smile wide. It was good to see a familiar friendly face.

"How's Ron and the family?" she ventured.

Harry's face fell a bit. "They're getting through it. Ron's alright, but his mum—she still serves dinner with an extra plate as if he's going to show up any minute." He stopped, not waiting to continue. "They'd be better with you there."

"Oh Harry, you know I want to," she immediately said, "but it's weird for me. With what happened, I feel like I'm intruding on a very sensitive time."

"You're not, Hermione." he assured her. She thought he'd say more, but he only took a gulp of his butterbeer instead. His only other communication was a delighted 'hm' upon tasting the beverage.

"I'll try to visit soon."

Harry wiped some foam from his lips and gave her an encouraging smile. Picking up after tragedy was such exhausting labor. They sat in silence for a while, just enjoying the easiness of being with another person so familiar they did not have to explain themselves. It was like sitting in that tent again, but without the fear and cold. If they had a question, they need not ask. A look was sufficient.

"How's Grimmauld Place?" She finally broke the wordless spell.

"You know. Kreacher." They both nodded with a knowing gaze exchanged.

"Oh, I almost forgot what I wanted to show you!" Hermione burst out, almost spilling her drink. She hastily dug around in her purse for the tiny wooden box. Her hand knocked over a pile of books and a few cauldrons before finding it. The noise of heavy objects falling made Harry raise an eyebrow. "You never know what you need," she explained in all seriousness.

"Right," he replied sarcastically.

Hermione placed the small rosewood box in front of him. "I found this in the house and thought you'd like to have it."

"The house?" He stared at the smooth wood of the lid, perplexed.

"Yes, the house. Um—you know,  _his_  house."

"His house—" Still unclear, Harry made a face but opened the box anyway. His face froze and his breath hitched when he saw the photograph inside. Slowly, he reached in and picked it up by one corner, careful to hold it gently like it would fall apart from even the slightest of negligence. A finger gingerly traced the girl's smiling face.

"Wow, it's…" he trailed off, unsure of what words to use. "Thanks, Hermione. This means a lot to have."

Hermione smiled and didn't say anything. She didn't want to ruin the moment.

"Did you find anything else?"

Her brow instantly furrowed and she couldn't help biting her lip.  _Yes, there are lots of other things._  What would she say? No concept could describe the oddity of the sudden sinking feeling in her stomach. It was a curiosity so complex that she felt compulsion to sample it over and over, terrified by still reveling in her lack of grasp on its character and origin.

"No," she lied.

Sensing something awry, Harry leaned in and asked earnestly, "Is something wrong, Hermione?"

Her eyes widened, not expecting him to pick up on the storm inside of her. Not wanting to lie again, she implored, "I feel like something happened to me last year. Do you remember if someone hit me with a charm?"

"A charm? You mean hit during a duel?"

"No, not like that," she struggled to explain it plainly. "I'm starting to remember things that I don't recall happening. I mean, they must have happened because I'm remembering. But it's different than forgetting and remembering, it's like there's this puzzle that I thought was finished and now I'm finding there are new pieces and they keep fitting in and changing the picture on the puzzle." Upon seeing Harry not quite following, she wrung her hands.

"Harry, did someone accidentally hit me with a memory charm?"

Harry Potter's mouth dropped open with shock.

"I don't think it was malicious!" she added immediately, "The memories are just of school, very ordinary things. I think it must have been an accident."

He didn't seem convinced. "When did this start?"

She held her glass and played with it to distract herself. "A few weeks ago. I think it may have happened sometime last year. I'm not remembering anything recent, it's all just school. Do you recall if anything happened?"

Her friend shook his head, to her disappointment.

"Oh," she murmured quietly, "Must just be that so much has happened and I'm finally decompressing…"

"You could go to see a shrink. I've heard it's useful."

Hermione took the suggestion with a rueful scowl. She was not sure of many things surrounding her odd condition, but she was certain she was not having a breakdown. Her face colored as she started to feel overly defensive. "I don't think so. I'm not overly fond of the idea of sitting in a cheap office somewhere listening an idiot drone on about how I fit into a predefined box of words and feelings. That's what sheep do when they feel cornered and need someone to close their eyes for them."

"I wasn't implying anything," Harry quickly supplied, unsure of how to respond to her sudden rant. "I just— just take care of yourself, Hermione."

The witch quieted down and looked at her drink. As she raised her glass to drink, she felt that nagging voice in the back of her head wag it's finger at her in glee.

She was beginning to sound like  _him_.


	12. The Amber

The evening seemed glow, still emitting the residual heat of day in a long sigh. Hermione kept her hands firmly on the sides of the large ceramic dish of curry she'd just spent the past two hours making as she walked. Passing through the still broken gate that hung a fading sign said "Pick Your own Mistletoe", she picked up the pace a bit on the zig-zagging path up the hill. The Lovegoods' gardens were overgrown to shoulder-height in the rich summer. Various oddities reached out as she made her way up to the rook-like tower. Apparently the renovation had not included landscaping.

At the door, Hermione heaved one side of the dish onto her waist and knocked. She could already hear the sound of music and voices coming from inside. It was so unlike her to be late but cooking was simply not her forte and she'd been foolish enough to try to make something for the first time.

Luna swung the door wide open and beamed at Hermione. The bright yellow of her robes almost as blinding as the obvious excitement on her face.

"Come in!"

"Hey Luna, congrats on your house being done," Hermione said in a much more subdued tone and offered the dish forward. They'd barely spoken since the incident in the house and she wasn't sure what to say.

"Oh, this is looks very interesting. I'm quite excited. Thanks, Hermione!" Luna talked excited as she took the dish in her small hands and tilted her head inward, gesturing for Hermione to follow. "Everyone, Hermione's here!" she announced as she walked backwards into the curved sitting room.

Hermione closed the door behind her and stepped past the vestibule to give a small wave. Only a few people looked up and waved back. One of them was Harry, who sat awkwardly on a couch between Cho Chang and Padma Patil. Hermione couldn't help letting out a giggle when he stiffly sat up, each of his hands clenched firmly on his knees as he nodded absently to something Padma said. Many others were engrossed in conversation and barely noticed her entrance.

"Hermione, come see!" Luna called as she walked toward the dining room adjacent.

Hermione marveled at the smooth curvature of the bean-shaped sitting room as she passed it. The quirk of the way the furniture curved along the walls made her smile. She'd never seen a room shaped quite so organically, like the inside of a kidney. When she followed Luna around a wall to the dining room, she paused the note that it was an inverse of the other room, same in shape, but opposite in direction. A large upside-down tree chandelier hung from the ceiling, dangling candles in the shape of radishes from its branches. It was all very fitting.

Luna set the dish down on the bean-shaped table and lifted the lid off. She bent down to inspect it, and the tips of her long blonde hair fell into the dish. Hermione cringed at the sight and made a protesting noise. Her friend caught her mistake and lifted her hair out. Luna looked at the sticky mess for a moment before shrugging and placing the tips into her mouth, giving Hermione a dreamy smile in the process.

"It's quite good, Hermione."

"Right, thanks," Hermione replied hesitantly, a bit unsettled.

Throwing her hair behind her, Luna took Hermione by the hand and pulled back to the other room. "Come on, sit and chat for a moment. We're still waiting for Ginny and Ron before we start eating."

"Right," Hermione repeated and let herself be dragged along and pushed into a navy, crescent-moon armchair. She tried to put her arms on the two sides, then awkwardly put them back in her lap when they proved too high to be comfortable.

Terry Boot turned from the identical chair beside her and grinned, "Hey Hermione. How's it going?"

"Hello Terry," she managed, sounding more dry than she intended, "I'm well. How are you?"

"I just started working at the Ministry, Department of Magical Transportation. I had to file some paperwork on an unfortunate portkey incident yesterday," he explained as he made a dismissive gesture with his left hand.

"What happened?" Hermione asked out of politeness.

Terry swiveled his seat to face her more directly and continued with a serious face, "Some old wizard thought it a good idea to send his grandson a portkey so he'd visit more, but there was a mistake in the order and the poor kid ended up stranded in the middle of the English Channel."

"Oh Merlin, is he alright?" Her eyes widened in horror at the thought of landing in an ocean.

"Of course, just floated for few hours. Had a grand time, really."

Hermione nodded in feigned agreement. Didn't sound like a grant time... "Having a job sounds quite exciting."

The boy scratched his brown hair and let out a dramatic audible sigh, "To be honest, it's rather dull. It's a lot of sitting at a desk filling out paperwork that I don't think anyone will ever read. I'm a bit at a loss as to how anyone does this their entire lives."

The conversation's unexpected turn made her fidget with her hands uncomfortably. She offered, "I'm sure it gets better. How else would all our parents have done it?"

Terry considered this with a furrowed brow and took a sip of his drink. An awkward pause in their conversation took hold. She kept glancing at him, waiting for him to say the next thing. Wasn't that how small talk worked? To her dismay, Terry seemed lost in his own head, his blue eyes forlorn and lost as he stared at some spot on the floor behind her. Hermione forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood. This was a party, they were supposed to be having fun.

As if the graces were listening, Ginny and Ron arrived, breaking the entire room's conversation with their energetic presence. Hermione shot up from her seat upon seeing them. Her eyes met Ron's across the room and she felt a wave of guilt. He handed a platter of something to Luna and started to walk toward Hermione.

She saw him with a clarity that melted the rest of the room away. He was like a single still image in a blur of movement in the room. Holding her breath, Hermione stood glued to the ground as he approached. He reached out with his long arms and she instinctively returned the embrace. "Hey," he murmured into her hair.

"Hey," she returned and gripped him tighter. He was warm, real in her arms, but something was not right. She couldn't place it but there was an unmistakable dissatisfaction inside of her. Hermione felt him begin to speak and quickly added, "You don't need to say anything."

"Let's eat!" Luna waved both arm at the room, beckoning them to rise and follow her to the dinner room. Ron and Hermione broke apart and followed the crowd, the density of their meeting diffused by the casual excitement of the room moving all at once. Harry seemed to appear next to them from nowhere. He and Ron exchanged the slightest of nods as their only greeting.

"What'd you bring?" Ron asked Hermione.

"I made some curry," she replied, "What did you bring?"

"Blimey, that sounds impressive," he remarked, suddenly looking sheepish about his own lack of comparative skill. "Ginny and I made some biscuits. They're on the big silver platter. Uh, probably best to avoid those. Mum gave us instructions, but they turned out dreadful. They're a bit like rocks actually. I reckon you could chip a tooth on one."

Hermione gave him an incredulous look. "And you still brought them?"

He shrugged it off and raised his hands in defense, "Ginny insisted. The invite said to bring something."

"I actually just bought a pie and pretended I made it," Harry confessed.

Ron cursed under his breath and said, "I should have thought of that. Say, Harry, can I say I made that with you."

Harry pulled out one of the dinning chairs and responded with resolution. "No, Ron. I'm not going to say we baked a pie together. It just sounds—it's weird."

"Damn, you're right," the red-haired wizard admitted in defeat. He started to sit down, but jumped back up and pulled a seat out for Hermione next to him. She giggled at his poor attempt at being chivalrous and found herself saddened that she had stayed away. His silly nature always did lighten her mood when she was down.

As they waited for the floating plates and spoons to serve them, Ron leaned over and asked seriously, "Why haven't you come to the Burrow recently?"

"I— I have a lot of things to take care of right now," she deflected.

Not one to give up so easy, Ron pressed, "I haven't seen you in weeks. I miss you, Hermione. You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?"

Hermione looked at his earnest face and felt shame for staying away. It was deeply unsettling that she didn't know how to tell the truth, that his family's sorrow terrified her. The way they managed their loss in the open shook something inside of her, something that threatened to fall to pieces if she reached to find what it was. She gave a weak smile and attempted to reassure him. "I'm fine. Don't worry, summer is practically over. School's just a few weeks away; I'll see you everyday then."

"About that," Ron swallowed and averted his eyes, "I'm not going back to Hogwarts."

She froze. "What do you mean?"

"Come on, Hermione. You can't be really surprised. We've been through too much. Plus, we'll be older than all the other seventh years. Harry's not going back either."

Hermione snapped her attention to the boy-who-lived to her right. Her word rushed out overly fast, like pouring water. "Is this true, Harry? You're not going back to Hogwarts in September?"

Harry gave her guilty look and nodded.

"When were you two going to tell me?" She flipped back and forth between her two friends, trying to make sense of their decision.

"If you actually came around—" Ron began but stopped when Harry shot him an icy look.

"I can't believe this. But it's your educations. You'll not be finished without the N.E.W.T.s," she protested, trying to make them see the error of their ways. Outwardly, she made it about them, but secretly she was afraid of being left behind alone. "You're going to regret not finishing something so important. It's not like it's that much time; just a year."

"Hermione, we're not going back," Harry said firmly, "You've got to admit it, Ron and I were never really any good at school. We'd rather just move on with getting jobs."

"Yeah, I'm massively relieved to not have to take exams. We'd be mental to go back," Ron added.

Hermione stammered, "It doesn't matter. This is your future. Jobs are miserable, you'll wish you were back in school again. And if you don't come back with me I can't... I won't see you the whole school year."

Ron placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but she only felt the force of him pushing her away. "We'll write you every day and see you during the break. You said it. It's only a year."

"You'll write…"

She couldn't keep the crushing disappointment from her voice. How could they abandon her?

 

*

 

When Hemione arrived home, she sat alone with her thoughts in the silent darkness of her flat for a good hour. With Luna mostly moved out, the rooms seemed infinitely lonely. Thank goodness her sub-lease was ending in a few weeks. It crossed her mind that she ought to be less bitter about having all this space. Some people didn't have any home to live in, and here she was unhappy with the luxury of two. The world was a terribly unfair place.

She changed and slumped into the bed but found her mind racing, unable to quiet down for sleep. The lonely space began to feel oppressive. Feeling restless, Hermione got up and lit a small fire in the old, non-functional fireplace and threw some floo powder into it. At least she could go be closer to another solitary soul. The flames roared green and she took a step without hesitating.

"14 Spinner's End."

When she emerged into the still dark of the house, she could instantly feel how different the air was from her own flat. There was a rich, dense quality to it that her own room didn't have, like there was a blanket of knowing welcome. Without stopping, she walked straight to the stairs and ascended the creaky planks toward the bedrooms. Hermione entered the first bedroom and laid down on the bare mattress.

As she laid on his bed, she felt a bit better, more at ease with the unknown inside of her. Despite being a warm summer night, the breeze barging in from the cracked window felt chilly against her back. Hermione rose and went to the closet in search of a blanket but discovered that she'd already tossed all the linens into the dumpster days ago. She reached down into the only box left and pulled out a flowing fluid of black.

Returning to bed, she threw the dark fabric over herself and wrapped her hand in its pleated seams. A hard object in a pocket poked her in the side uncomfortably and she reached in to take it out. It was something round and flat that she couldn't identify. Throwing it aside on the nightstand, she rolled and wrapped herself in the robes. She could still smell the ghost of wine and ash in it when she closed her eyes.

She knew this smell but couldn't match an image to it no matter how she reached. There was still so much missing.

" _Don't tell me you are afraid of the dark."_

"Of course not," she said aloud into the room, "I am just not fond of breaking the rules."

" _Rules are for sheep. You don't strike me as a sheep, Granger."_

Hermione's eyes flickered under her eyelids as she began to dream.

 

*

 

She dragged a hand along the the banister as she descended Gryffindor Tower, carelessly wandering in the dim candlelight rather than truly doing her job with focus. Doing the evening sweep for curfew was one of the most irritating parts of her Prefect duties. Nothing was quite as dispiriting as the hateful glares she got when she caught someone out. It wasn't personally her fault that they chose to be reckless.

Hurrying as fast as she could, Hermione glanced around the narrow halls and ducked her head into the usual corners to make sure no one was hiding about. She should have never traded her day with Ron. Picking up her steps, she rushed through the long corridor past the transfiguration classrooms and began to turn back toward the tower. There were essays to get back to that she was running late on.

Dark robes zoomed around a corner in her peripheral vision and she rolled her eyes. Just her luck some inconsiderate idiot was out. She dashed in the direction and shouted into the dimness, "Stop!"

The person paused and turned back to see who had called. His frame stiffened as she approached. Hermione stomped toward him but stopped when she caught his sallow face in the low flickering light. "Oh, hello, I didn't realize it was you, sir."

Snape took his wand out of his pocket and lit the stretch of hall to better see her. "Shouldn't you be in bed, Granger?"

"I have to finish my curfew rounds," she replied, hold a hand against the blinding blue light of his wand as she walked up to him. Her eyes focused their observation on the heavy cloak he wore. He was going somewhere outside. He extinguished his light and the hallways suddenly looked uncharacteristically dark in contrast, enveloping him into the shadow's grasp.

"Very well, shouldn't you be getting back before the candles go out?"

Yes, of course. But her curiosity always got the better of her around him. She almost kicked herself when the words just slipped out of her mouth, "If you don't mind me asking. Where are you going?"

"To witness something interesting. It is the moon perigee tonight and the dust around certain magical creature will alter the order of matter itself. Mechanics of magic will invert. You can hear their calls; they are all restless," he replied easily and tucked his wand back into his pocket. "Would you like to come?"

"I don't know," Hermione said hesitantly, conflicted about the offer. She was not supposed to be out of bed when the hall candles went out.

Snape folded his arms and leaned over her in an intimidating manner. "Don't tell me you are afraid of the dark."

"Of course not," she answered defensively. "I am just not fond of breaking the rules."

He let out a small laugh at her insistence. "Rules are for sheep. You don't strike me as a sheep, Granger."

Her lips twisted into a bashful smile. "What do I strike you as, then?"

Dark eyes narrowed as he considered her overly eager face. She could barely see in the darkening hall lights to catch the expression he wore as he carefully thought of his reply. A moment passed before he said with acidic delight, "A magpie. Too clever for your own good."

"Oh," Hermione murmured, feeling taken aback at his assessment, perhaps a bit insulted. Magpies weren't exactly aspirational metaphors for wisdom. They were silly creatures. Not like other birds, phoenixes, doves, owls: magpies were not beloved. They were never the hero of the story, just unloved pests you shoo away.

Snape smirked upon seeing the knitted crease above her preoccupied eyes and began to walk toward the west gate. Hermione quickly rushed to follow him, caught in the magnetic field of his vague explanations and doublespeak. She felt a greedy compulsion to take up his time. As they walked, she stole glances at him but immediately pretended to look away when he seemed to notice.

It was often that she wished she were better friends with her professor, that she were not only just another student of his. To her dismay, he'd begun to completely ignore her during class, a change that only fueled her desire to demand his attention more. If only so she could speak to him during the week and not just the a short hour of tea he gifted her with on the resting days.

"Watch your step," he instructed as he pushed the heavy door open. They stepped into the darkness of night, guided only by the moon hanging high and brighter than normal.

 

*

 

Hermione woke with a start.

Her feet were cold, just like they were in her dream. But it was not much like a dream at all. Closing her eyes, she tried to will herself back to the chilly April night where she was walking through tall grass on the Hogwarts ground, following her professor toward the stables. The memory came back in fits and starts. She could remember him pressing a round piece of amber into her hands, the hard edges digging into her palm as she held it carefully. The details of what he said escaped her, something about the inverse of seeing thestrals.

Hermione curled up into herself and buried her head under the robes, trying to return to the evening. It was dark, she couldn't see what he was trying to show her. Her hands ran across taunt rough skin of an unexpected creature and she jumped.

"Of course you can't see them." There was a sardonic edge to his voice.

What had he said about the amber? The reflexive property in magic?

She reached out and grasped for the amber she'd tossed aside. The tacky surface was the familiar under her fingers, pulling her back into the memory, but in disorganized pieces. Only those who have seen death can see thestrals. In this night where magic was going awry from the close proximity of the moon, strange things were viewable through the amber. She remembered. Through the amber, instead of magic revealing thestrals to witnesses of death, magic would show them the death of the witnesses.

His hands were cold as they stood on either side of the creature invisible to her. She reached over the animal and made a circle with his hand, holding the amber between them as they looked through toward one another.

"How dull, you are old."

Hermione tilted her head to see him and felt panicked horror at the revelation. His ashen face, empty eyes, slack expression. Blood, blood, drowning in blood. She couldn't let him know. If he hadn't run into her in the hall...that meant, he intended to see it for himself. There was something despairing colliding into the moment. She forced herself to lie, "So are you."

The moonlight scene flickered and warped. He was saying something to her but she could not remember it. Her vision skipped around, throwing her out of the memory and into others. It was dark and she gripped the strong neck of a thestral as it flew through night. She caught sight of him falling, spiraling to the ground. The darkness faded into the yellowing light of a camping tent. He was hovering over her with wild desperation, his wand raised, saying something.

" _Can you not recall?"_

Eyes flying wide open, she sat up with a jolt.

" _Memora Vivere."_

Where had she seen that charm before? She played it again and again in her mind, she'd seen it somewhere, written in his sharp, slanted script. Reaching back, she felt all around that image of the two words. They were on a strip of parchment. The parchment was used as a bookmark in a heavy red tome with a rippling front.

Hermione jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs, two steps at a time. She rushed to the box of books in the corner of the sitting room. Possessed by manic urgency, she sifted through the shrunken boxes under dim wandlight; she searched frantically for the one marked 'F'. Placing the tiny box on the floor, she returned it to its regular size and began to dig through for the book with the rippling cover.

Throwing books on the floor all around, she dug and dug until her fingertips touched the ridging material. She lifted the the book out with both hands trembling in anticipation. The bookmark was still peeking out from the bottom. Reading the title, she instantly knew this was the answer to her questions. Forgetfulness and Deeper Forgetfulness.

The book yielded to her touch easily when she flipped to the bookmark. Just as she recalled from the packing process, the rectangular bit of paper held only one spell.  _Memora Vivere._ Removing the parchment, she scanned the page for what he must have been reading.

_Memory enchantments made against the will of the victim must always dissolve through pieces._

She felt a flood of crippling realizations. So he was the one who cast the spell on her. After all her misguided attempts to defend him, to believe the best in him, the truth was wretched and simple. All this time, she had been a fool, going out of her way to embrace the delusion. Why else would he have given her his house?

Hermione sank back against the wall.

But it didn't make sense. He had no reason to do it. There was still something she was not remembering properly. Whatever it was had to have been catastrophic for him to resort to erasing all of him from her memory. It was calling her urgently like a huge iceberg hidden under the sea waiting to tear her apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amber and dust, reference to Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials. Dust is the manifestation of matter understanding itself.


	13. The Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse the unusually short length; it's just that the real story is with Hermione who we'll get back to soon enough.

**July 1997**

 

For the first time in a long time, Severus Snape was nervous.

In fact time, he couldn't actually remember the last time he was this shaken. Maybe when he was young and egregiously stupid upon being confronted with the lie of his own invincibility; the first time he'd seen another human being fall by his lord's wand. He'd known nothing of death before then, except a flippant thought that it happened to the unfortunate in this awful trash world. He'd lost his words in that instant, even the thoughts in his head suddenly silent, when the immediate and pressing feeling death splintered his delusion from inches away.

Now, he was revisited by that very same dread, the paranoia of seeing the ease with which a life could break. Snape threw his cloak over his shoulders, covered his face with his mask, and prepared to leave. As he disapparated with a hand over the burning dark mark, his chest rushed with an arrhythmic beat. His heart, the anchor of soul to life, was jittery. But this time, he was not nervous for himself. He was nervous for  _her_.

The summer night was chaotic with magic cutting through dense air when he arrived. Wizards darted all around in the sky, lighting it with curses and spells. He drifted upward to survey the sky for clues as to which one of the Harry Potters was her. There were several pairs on brooms zooming around. A pair of brooms flashed by and he flew after them. Remus Lupin led the pair, flying in an evasive pattern. The Potter on the broom struggled to keep up, flailing in the chaos of the attack. She did always say that she was not too good on a broom.

He removed his mask with a wave of his wand to get a clearer look as he followed the pair closely. Hopefully no one else would follow upon seeing his face. Carefully, he shot a curse at them, intentionally aiming a bit too high as to miss. When they noticed him and ran, he silently hoped they would hurry and fly out of range.

"You look like you need some help." A death eater flew by him.

"Hardly," he replied fiercely and increased his speed to prove it.

The other wizard twisted around him and barreled up toward Lupin and the fake Potter. He raised his wand and aimed directly at them. Reacting quickly, Snape whipped around directly behind him and shot a curse ahead. To his horror, the jet of red missed the death eater's hand and struck one of the pair. The Potter began to spiral on his broom, and a pale hand held to the side of his head. Lupin circled around and wrapped an arm around the injured Potter to keep him from falling.

"Nice one, Snape!"

A paralyzing shock ran down Snape's spine, stopping him in midsky. He dove after the pair as they struggled to run. Close enough to see, he surveyed the damage. Even in the dark, he could see the blood running through the Potter's hand, thick and black against white of skin in the moonlight. The figure was beginning to slump on its broom. Lupin's eyes caught his face and conveyed murderous daggers.

 _No. No. No. No_ —

Snape felt himself beginning to fall, crashing down through the night without any ability to stop. All processing escaped him, and he could only feel the air rushing against his skin as he fell. She was hurt and he'd done it. He'd not meant to. But it happened all the same. And she was suffering because of him. He'd failed at the simplest of tasks despite a singular drive to do it right. Why did he always do this?

The finite nature of existence was imminently apparent to him in that moment. Despite best efforts to be better, he was infuriatingly just the same. This was what he was. This was all he was ever going to be in his lifetime, a bitter man plagued by his own blatant inability to do the right thing.

He closed his eyes and let himself descend in free fall, making no efforts to fight the force pulling downward. Not fearing tragedy, he plummeted toward the ground with ease. Bracing himself for impact, he held a hand over his heart to feel its unsteady beats. These could be the last of its pathetic outputs. A force suddenly cushioned his crash, holding him inches off the pavement of a quiet neighborhood.

Eyes open, he landed on the ground with a light thump. Innate magic had protected him. The panic of that ancient lizard part of his brain was too strong. It was deep in the body's programming to avoid disposal at all cost. He couldn't even get this right. Snape got up and brushed his robes off. Walking slowly under the yellow lamp light of the street, he debated whether to return or not.

No, she'd gotten away and that was all the mattered.

But in what condition? The imagination was too fearsome a conjurer. All he could see was the worst possible outcomes. Her ear damaged, her beautiful face disfigured, her hatred when she discovered who had scarred her.

Something dark passed by overhead, catching his eye and demanding his attention. Two large, black figures drifted overhead like racing clouds. Snape cast a cloaking spell on himself and launched into the air to see what or who had disrupted his thoughts. As he caught up to the creatures, he saw that they were thestrals, graceful and fluid like mercury flowing through the sky.

But what made his breath stop was not the thestrals' gleaming eyes or their strong wings, it was the passenger one of them carried. The potion she'd taken was just beginning to wear off and her mess of brown hair was beginning to reveal itself. Even with the Potter boy's clothing and glasses, he could pick her out any day. Hermione removed the glasses so she could see as her sight returned. With the potion effects gone, her face was her own again, capturing a determined expression.

He allowed himself to drift closer to get a good look at her. Her clothes were torn in a few places but she did not appear to have any wounds. Words could not describe the immense relief he felt.

He'd not hurt her after all.

Allowing himself the indulgence of linger, he flew alongside her in silence, drinking in her presence. The thestral seemed to sense him despite his charm. Its glowing eyes fixed on the place he occupied. But he knew this creature and so it did not protest when he drew closer, riding the airstream behind them.

Hermione closed her eyes and clung onto the thestrals neck for dear life. The small movement reminded him of her confessing that she was never one for flying. Against his better judgement, he approached until he was almost above her, so close that he could just reach out and touch her.

The gleam of her wrist as she held onto the thestral was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

In his head, there were once versions of himself that existed in the future, those that hadn't ruined everything. They were with her now, sitting somewhere quiet, mocking the irrationality of this war. But each day and decision accumulated as he moved further into that future and those versions began to fade from the potential story of his life. It was wrong to grief over what never was, but he couldn't pretend that everything happened like it should. He couldn't just write his narrative in reverse to justify it all when she was this close, reminding him of his own folly.

He reached down, hand just before her shoulder. Hermione shuddered at the wind suddenly breaking differently and turned up to see what had caused the disturbance. Her brown eyes were fixed on the exact place where he was, almost as if she could see his face.

Snape pulled his hand back and held it against his pounding chest. He stopped mid-air and let her go without following. It would not do to break the illusion. She was her own now, free of the burden of knowing him.

 

" _Nothing good can come. The things that will happen. The things I will do..."_

 

He'd been naive to have told her.

The memory charm was one of his greatest regrets. Its pain was still raw despite the weeks that had passed. He turned it over and over in his head to try and decide if he could have done it another way. If he had only not responded with impulsive self-preservation and given her a chance, would she have been understanding? Would she have seen him as he was and not been afraid of what he'd admitted?

But none of that mattered. He stopped himself from chasing that hypothetical rabbit as he watched the thestrals disappear over the horizon.

It was done, and he had to let her go.


	14. The Newspaper

Hermione sat on the floor for what seemed ages, kept company only by the books she'd carelessly scattered in her search. It was not until her knees protested with a dull ache that she picked herself up. She glanced down at the note in his thin, leaning hand, and anger welled up inside of her. It had been presumptuous and cruel of him to think she'd manage according to his plan. What if she never remembered it all?

In her anger, she handled the books roughly, throwing them back into the box without order or consideration. When she reached the red memory tome, her hands paused. Perhaps she should read this one…No, she decided as she threw it back in the box with the rest of them.

The thought of doing something he'd done only made her angrier.

She paced around the sitting room in an attempt to dissipate the nervous energy trapped in her. It was the first hours of the day, and she ought to be sleeping. People lose their minds without sleep, her mother had always insisted. Around the couch, around the armchairs, around the end table. Again and again, around the couch, around the armchairs, around the end table. The motion only served to remind her more of him. He had been a pacer too.

Not wanting to let her mind drift toward him again, Hermione stopped at the couch and sat down. The threadbare cushion sighed with her weight as she stiffly stared straight ahead at the wavering shadows from the table lamp. Minute flickering from an uneven current made them jump every now and then.

_Are you going to sit there forever?_

His voice flooded her head despite her best efforts.

In an attempt to distract herself, she picked up the stack of old newspapers still left on the end table and started to read through them. It was one time she was thankful for her own laziness that she'd forgotten to throw them out. The top issue was from January 1998, a lifetime ago. A quick thumb through the rest revealed the others were even older. The oldest was from May 24, 1997. What was she even doing then? It felt like a million years behind cobwebs of time.

Reclining against the stiff couch arm, she opened the old paper and glanced over its contents. A large photograph of Rufus Scrimgeour walking with nondescript bureaucrats graced the front page under the headline, "Minister establishes security council". Scrimgeour was dead. She vaguely wondered with morbid curiosity if those bureaucrats were dead too. May 24, 1997 was a troubled news day, it seemed.

Skimming through the headlining news felt comforting in a way that pacing around hadn't. She could think and not feel. As she read the faded sepia words, Hermione felt her eyelids grow heavy with sleep.

" _I don't know why you insist on reading that drivel."_

She gave a wry smile at how he was always so critical of everything but himself. Hermione felt the paper slip from her hands as she drifted in and out of the recollection. The crinkle of paper and tacky residue of oily newsprint on her fingers pulled at her as if she were touching inky quicksand. But it did not inspire fear. It came on like an enveloping embrace.

"Ugh, it's like a trainwreck I can't stop watching. Can you believe what Scrimgeour is saying? It's ridiculous to monitor everyone's mail and publicize all floo activity. That's not going to do anything but turn us all on each other. Meanwhile, those fascists laugh and celebrate," she replied indignantly.

Snape urged her to put down the paper for a moment. "It would to be to your benefit if you stopped reading such pointless propaganda."

"How else am I supposed to know what is going on out there?" She set the paper down on his desk and waved her hand in a sweep to indicate the "out there". The only thing that terrified her more than the chaos of the world was not being able to see with clarity what was on the horizon. A corner of the page dipped into the full teacup that she'd completely forgotten.

Her professor lifted the newspaper from the cup in disdain and pushed it back toward her so it didn't get his desk wet. He rolled his eyes at her rant and lectured, "Have you given any thought to the fact that you, a mere student, personally worrying about what Rufus Scrimgeour does with his Ministry does nothing to change his mind?"

"I'm can't just shove my head in the sand and hope it goes away," she protested.

"Well it's obviously affecting you in ways it shouldn't. You look dreadful."

Hermione gripped the arms of her chair as she listened to his words. Always so blunt.

"But if I don't—"

"And you shouldn't," he stopped her before she could talk herself into some absurd logical trap.

A silence passed between them as Hermione cast her eyes down toward the ground, unable to look him in the eye. What he'd said made her stomach swim a bit. The anxious knot in her gut bothering her for weeks suddenly pooled and threatened to pour from her mouth.

"You think I look dreadful?" she asked quietly, suddenly feeling exactly the insecure and immature teenage girl she tried so hard to be more than. Her mind raced to try to identify what it was that was so offensive about her appearance. She'd just showered...a few days ago.

Snape cursed under his breath and tried awkwardly to deflect, "I merely meant your coursework is suffering."

"My coursework?" Her worried eyes flickered up to him in question.

"You're distracted. I expect better from you."

"I'm sorry. I guess it's because I haven't been able to sleep well."

He shrugged dismissively, "Perhaps it is time to retire earlier."

"You don't understand,' she pushed back, trying to impress him with the seriousness of what she was trying to say, "I just lay there, and my mind just runs all night. All of that's happening out there is so frightening. There's a rumor there's going to be a muggleborn registry, that they'll track our every move, that they'll send our parents to internment camps. I don't know what's true, what are lies. School work just seems so trivial by comparison."

If she was looking for sympathy, it was clearly not what he was giving. "That may be so, but you must understand that taking the misery out there into yourself accomplishes. It's foolish to drink poison and hope someone else dies."

Hermione scowled at his lecture and took the newspaper in her lap. The condescending nature of his words cut at her. It was immensely insulting to be spoken to like a mere child, and she lashed out, "Easy for you to say, you're not muggleborn. Well I am, and I can't help it. This is all I can think about. It eats at me. The thoughts just run and run..."

"You're resilient, Granger. You'll endure. It is a dark time, but darkness never lasts. This too shall pass and you'll return to your shameless overachieving. The world will keep turning regardless of what happens you or me."

"And what if all of this gets worse? What if all those awful rumors are all true?" She paused before saying what was really on her mind, "What if he wins?"

Snape froze at her question, momentarily caught off-guard. He pushed his saucer on the desk with idle fingers and wavered the slightest.

"Then I guess we're all equally doomed and none of it matters. There are futures out there where it all turns out marvelous and there are futures where it doesn't. We can only accept the path we are dealt."

Hermione's eyes were beginning to well up as her anxiety exponentially exploded. His answers didn't reassure her at all. What was going to happen to her? To her parents and friends? It was impossible to see how anything was ever going to be fine.

"Granger…"

She'd started crying, the tears spilling from her eyes onto the newspaper in her lap.

"Should I leave you to have a moment alone?"

"No!"

He stopped to think carefully about how to manage such uncomfortable and unfamiliar territory. The image of her overflowing eyes was jarring and awkward. The lines between his eye deepened with every tear that hit the paper. He'd thought for certain that she'd want to be alone. That's what he would have wanted if he were her, after all.

"What do you want me to do?"

Hermione met his eyes with a fierce and demanding gaze, pushing him to just acknowledge what she thought he already knew.

"What do you want me to say?"

She threw the newspaper on the floor and slammed her hands on the desk, causing their cups to clatter in protest. The total lack of awareness on his part was absurd. Here she was, sixteen, teaching a grown man how to listen and show compassion. It was ridiculous.

"I want you to tell me it's going to be alright. That I'm being stupid and irrationally paranoid, that everything will be better tomorrow, if only I just wait properly. I want you to tell me that school isn't trivial, and that I have a future. I'm so scared—I just want you to promise me that everything will be fine!"

His eyes widened at the fervor and specificity of her demands. Reluctant and unsure, Snape rose from his seat and rounded the desk to stand beside her chair. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. It seemed she would fall to pieces if he didn't pull her back.

"I don't want to lie to you," he replied softly.

She turned her face upward and searched his with her dark, piercing eyes. "How can you say that? How can you have so little hope?"

People die without hope.

It was true. Her sharp accusation gnawed at something inside of him, and he stood motionless like she'd cast a charm. The silence held him under as she continued to stare into his hesitancy, waiting for him speak. Her professor finally knelt to be closer to her height and took her hand, unraveling her fingers from the clenched knot on her lap.

"I suppose you're right. Everything will be fine."

Hermione's gaze dropped to the hand holding hers. Pressing her lips tightly together, she squeezed his hand and hung on as though he were pulling her to safety. Perhaps she was just being delusional, but it felt more real than any empty condolence anyone else had been able to offer.

"Oh, it's useless. You just said that because I told you to. I know you don't mean it," she sniffed and rolled her eyes in jest. For a moment, she allowed herself to think that maybe he did mean it.

"Lovely," he replied, exasperated, "I fail to see how I am ever suppose fulfill your request."

Wiping her eyes on the back of her sleeve, Hermione gave a half laugh, "You're terrible at this."

"You are...surprised."

She sighed with affection as she continued to grasp his hand tightly. Of course not.

 

*

 

Grey dawn streamed through the window, waking Hermione from her uneasy sleep. As she shifted, the newsprint fell to the floor. Her hand lingered as she picked it up and folded it lovingly on the coffee table. She was no longer angry. The feeling of his hand in hers reminded her that for all his mistakes, in spite of whatever terrible things he'd done, he was always a man who unwaveringly tried his best to be better.

The regret and pain of his face as he whispered the failed memory revival charm played in her mind again and again, circling around like a whirlpool. She was so close, almost able to touch the understanding of why she was here and why everything happened. Hermione stretched against the tough back of the couch and prepared to leave. It was important to get back the flat.

She had a call to make to the muggle real estate broker to say she wasn't selling the house.

 


	15. The Message

Hermione put her hands on every inch, every object. There wasn't anything else left in the house she hadn't touched or held yet to her frustration, she still couldn't fully remember what had happened. She'd caught bits and pieces of random conversations over the last two days as her hands scoured the house, but nothing anywhere close to a revelation. He had not divulged any sensitive information to her nor had anything inappropriate occurred (to her disappointment). There was simply no good reason to charm her memory.

The spare bedroom was completely empty; the kitchen and commons were also empty. There was simply where where else to look. Hermione leaned against the door frame of the bathroom and sighed. It didn't make any sense. He was too rational to have try and reverse a memory charm just to have her know they were...  _friends_. There had to be more. She shoved the door in frustration and cringed when the knob slammed into the plaster wall behind it loudly. One of these days she'll have to install a stop behind the door.

As she was turning to go downstairs, a dangling cold metal ring hit her in the face. She batted it away and her gaze followed the swinging string up to the ceiling from where it had just fallen. In the poor light, she could make out the outline of a rectangle. Of course there was more-this house had an attic! Hermione yanked on the string, and a set of stairs began to mechanically unfurl from the ceiling. The creaky steps descended with shudders and fits. When they finally stopped making noise, she tentatively put her foot on the first step. The old wooden plank wobbled and groaned from disuse. Careful not to break it, she put her hands on the upper planks and crawled her way up.

Whispering a quick 'lumos', she peeked around the windowless attic as soon as her head was above its floor. She couldn't seen anything except the fuzziness of a tremendous layer of dust all around. The attic was empty as far as she could see. Once she had her footing steady in the terribly short space, she slowly pointed her wand around. Her eye caught something in the corner and she shuffled toward it in an uncomfortable, hunched manner.

Where the roof began to slant slightly was a wooden post and a small table leaning into it. The table's top was hardly larger than a proper dinner plate. But that was not was had caught her eye. Hermione leaned down to inspect the single item on the table: a bottle of wine. It was a dark green glass bottle that looked to have something inside.

She crouched for a better look.

The label was for a variety of elf-made wine and there was about a quarter of it still in the bottle. When she grabbed it by the neck, an overwhelming, sudden sensation of wanting to drink it overtook her. The cork was a bit stubborn but nothing a charm couldn't handle. Hermione held the open bottle under her nose and wafted the scent up. It certainly smelled like wine. Something solid rattled in the bottle when she tipped it to the side to look at the color. Wandlight was a bit too weak to make it out.

Hermione carefully tip-toed back to the stairs and took the bottle with her down to the lit parts of the house. She went to the bedroom and held the bottle up to the window to see what was in it. There was a cylinder of something stuck at the bottom. It wobbled around when she tilted the bottle but was always stuck to the bottom no matter what she tried, magical or not.

Now she was certain she was meant to drink it.

Holding the bottle up, she took a swig. The wine tasted thick and made her stomach flutter as it went down. But it honestly wasn't bad for something that had sat around for so long.

" _I do not believe it is entirely appropriate for you to be drinking this, Granger."_

She took another drink, trying to remember what she had said in return.

A smirk played on her lips as she tilted her glass. "I've had worse."

"I also do not believe it is entirely appropriate for you to be here," he continued, words blending together as he poured himself a new glass, "I should have thrown you out hours ago."

Hermione laughed, "But yet you haven't. Am I to read into that?"

He tapped the glass impatiently as if thinking deeply about something. "Well, I've had a fair bit, and I am not sure I am entirely myself."

"You still haven't told me why you needed a good drink," she pushed, unable to restrain herself. It felt like something was about to happen.

He set his glass down. "Rest your curiosity. It is better left unknown."

"I'm not fond of not knowing things," Hermione pressed, sitting on the edge of her seat to lean closer to him, "As you have reminded me a thousand times."

Her professor caught her eye and gave her a meaningful look, contemplating a thread in his mind. "If you must know, I am to do something terrible," He began, "You see, unlike everyone else, I have nothing in this world. They all have family, friends, futures, hopes, reputations, things to lose. I have the great fortune of being a nobody. And so this terrible task can only fall to me."

"Something terrible?"

 

*

 

The bottle was almost empty. Hermione could see the metallic vial rolling around above the dark liquid. She took one last long drink. The salt of the wine tickled her throat. She shook the empty wine bottle and the vial shot through the neck into her hand. It felt cold and heavy, like a bullet. A thunderous pounding irradiated from her chest in anticipation, making the moment stretch to an excruciating length. Her hand shook so much as she unscrewed the top that she dropped it when it twisted off the steel body.

Inside of the vial was a bit of rolled parchment. It fell out with ease when she turned the vial upside down. For a few minutes, she just held it in her hands and allowed herself to imagine him writing with his sharp scratches and rolling it to the form it was now. His hands, all joints and no warmth. The paper stiffly did not want to unroll when she finally worked up the courage to pick at its seam. It had assumed its shape was permanent.

The parchment finally opened after she roughly dug her nails into the edges. Hermione took a deep breath and read the short message he left her.

Then she began to cry.

 

*

 

"But you have more than nothing," she insisted as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Hermione rose from her seat and inched over to his. She could feel his confusion as he looked up at her with glassy and unfocused eyes. "What?" She heard him mutter under his breath. A look of non-comprehension flashed on his long, pale face, as though he had forgotten what he said, his expression frozen by a mind searching and failing to understand. All he could find was silence.

"You have me. I care what happens to you," She said with affection as she reached to place a kind hand on his shoulder, mirroring the way he always comforted her.

"You wouldn't be so sure if you really knew. What I have done, what I will do." He whispered more to himself than her. The fire cracked and made Hermione turn momentarily. He took the opportunity to remove her hand from his shoulder and stand up to put some distance between them. Picking up his glass, he edged closer to the fire, away from her. The closeness between them felt like being trapped in too dense air, and his exit diluted the sensation like water thinning wine.

With a shaky sigh, he waved her toward the door, "I think it best you go."

"I'd like to stay," Hermione replied immediately. It felt familiar to her, this tension of desperate want but being too afraid to act. Unconsciously, she rubbed the back of her hand; it stung from where he had grasped it, constantly reliving the touch of his cold fingers. The last time she felt this way, she failed to say anything and missed her chance with Ron. She couldn't make that mistake again.

He snapped his head up to look at her, taken aback at her forcefulness.

"I— " she started, forcing herself to speak before she lost her nerve. But the rest of it wouldn't come out no matter how hard she wrung her hands. So tight was her fist that her nails left imprints against her palm. Giving up on words, Hermione took a bolder route. She strode over to him with purpose and put a hand on his cheek, tracing his greasy hair out of the way. His eyes flew wide at the warmth of her touch.

Without hesitation, she pulled him down and pressed her lips on his. To her delight, she felt him respond with a wandering hand in her hair. It occurred to her that he tasted unexpectedly of nothing, far from the wine and bitterness she'd been expecting. She suddenly pulled away to take a gasp of air.

So engrossed was Hermione that she'd forgotten to breathe.

Suddenly nervous, she flicked her eyes up to his. Feeling him so close bought her heart into a rattling rage like a wild raven trapped in a cage.

He set his wine on the mantle and placed a hand on her waist before bending down to return her a soft and undemanding kiss. The feeling of his lips was paradoxical, suspended somewhere in between disbelief and satisfaction, saturated with an intangible strangeness that they were not real and this may not actually happening. Hermione stood on her toes and crushed her lips into his, greedily demanding more.

Her arms snaked around his neck, hanging on as though he would float away. It felt like forever, but forever was not enough. All of her doubt was gone, expelled from the force of love beginning. She wanted to encase the moment, the feeling, in amber so it would no longer be ephemeral.

It was he who drew away first. When he did, he blew out a long breath out and remarked, "This is rather unsettling."

"Yes, a bit," she admitted in return, almost laughing at his anticlimactic tone.

"I can pretend this didn't happen." He gripped the mantle for support, his control over gravity weakening in anticipation of her reply. The wine was beginning to go to his head.

Hermione shook her head and ran her fingertips over the seams on his robes, stopping at his heart when she felt its quickening pace. "I don't want to pretend. This is what I want," she said adamantly.

Taking her hand, he pried it from his chest and said softly, "You don't know what you want. You're blinded by the novelty of impropriety."

It burned her to hear his lack of faith. It was real to her. "That's not true. I have decided, and I want you," she replied simply, trying to sound grown up.

He gave her an incredulous look. "But why? I have nothing to give you but misery."

"Because—" she paused, feeling too vulnerable to continue. Everything that came to her mind sounded silly to say aloud: that she could pick a quill he'd held out of a pile of identical ones because the mere fact of his touch gave it special meaning to her, that all she could do when he was out of sight was wonder where he was and what he would say were he with her, that he brought her to life. All the world was a maddening blur, and his presence the only stillness to hang on to.

"Don't. Nothing good will come," he warned her desperately. He rattled off a stream of consciousness list, more for himself than her, "The things people will all say, the scrutiny you will face...the disappointment that will burn you. The terrible acts I  _will do_  that would hurt you. This is not what you want. I can only..."

"Because—because I'm in love with you," she blurted out.

He froze mid-sentence, brows furrowing at her confession. It was not what she'd expected; something had gone very wrong. Turning away from her, he murmured something bitterly under his breath to himself. Hermione strained to hear him but could not make out anything. She wanted him to say anything to reassure her that she had not admitted her love in vain.

"Say something."

He visibly stiffened at the sound of her voice.

"You never say the things I expect."

"I hope that's not a bad thing," she ventured, feeling her resolve weaken with every minute. She was making a fool of herself.

"You would feel differently that if you knew what I will do," he whispered, a hoarse sound drifting around him so softly that she barely caught it.

She felt panicked. "Then tell me. Tell me right now. I won't care."

When he turned back to face her, his expression was a mix of loathing and disappointment. He shook his head, disgusted by the way he'd been cornered so easily. Nothing could come of this but pain.

"I am to kill the headmaster," he answered resolutely.

Her face suddenly twisted in horror. Unknowingly, she took a step back from him, a spark of fear suddenly igniting inside her, lit from the danger that emanated from his words. She tried to rationalize what he'd said away, there must be a reason, a good one. But it failed to align with the order of things in her mind.  _No, it couldn't be true._

"I don't believe you," Hermione declared.

Snape gave her an apologetic smile, "The truth doesn't care what you believe."

"It's impossible."

"I am to do it because it must be done. I'm sorry," he replied with defeat, voice cracking slightly from the strain of trying to keep too much inside.

She reached for excuses, for any way to reconcile such a horrific disclosure. "But you haven't done it so it doesn't mean anything. There's no such thing. You can say no. You don't have to."

It was too complicated to explain. He took a long look at her before simply admitting, "I took an unbreakable vow."

Hermione's face fell at this last piece. When he reached for her hand again, and she shrunk back in fear. The betrayal and terror in her eyes were like poison, eating away at him. It was a mistake. All of it. Hermione's eyes watered as she retreated back towards the door. The revelation was like a knife cutting her to pieces, taunting that she didn't actually know him at all. She'd put her trust and heart into someone undeserving. Was he not even on the right side of this war? Had she misjudged him all along?

Everything distorted and stretched, details sharpening to her senses irrationally: fire cracking as though it were next to her ear, the twisting void in her stomach, the conflict in his eyes bleeding into hers. She was so fixated in her thoughts that she did not catch the glint of his wand as he raised it. His lips moved but she heard no sound.

" _Obliviate"_

 

*

 

Hermione cried as she traced her finger over the message.

Everything flooded back, through her heart, down her stomach, and crashing against her bones. Just like that, like yesterday.

They were both such fools.

She felt so hurt. How could she have been so thoughtless as to be shaken so easily? How could he have not been more patient? How could he have not trusted her to understand when given more than a mere minute? But then again, he couldn't really have done anything else. They both knew she would have run to warn Harry immediately. He was right that it had to be done. Only in hindsight would she have understood.

They were always doomed, like two trains passing each other on separate tracks, never to meet. There was no alternative she could dream up where everything worked out fine. Even if he had said nothing, she still would have turned on him the moment the headmaster fell to his death.

Despite knowing it was impossible, all she wanted was to hear his voice again, to say she was sorry, to be where he was and feel nothing save the comfortable gravity of matter drawn to itself. Her longing was only amplified by the knowing truth that she was sitting in his empty house, on his empty bed, never to see him again. She'd found her memory but lost a hero, lost a friend. The world lost its order without him, and the tethers which held her to it diminished by one.

She felt she no longer knew herself and was spinning out of control. She was a different person. So much would have happened differently if she had known all along. The past year forked away from her reality in a manner that she could not reconcile. There was a world where she would have done everything another way. If only she could do it all again. A dangerous thought ventured into her mind—maybe in that world he would not be dead.

Sorrow, anger, pain all twisted together inside her. Her body struggled to contain the tide of so much at once and she found herself failing to make sense of her surroundings. The silent room became deafening in its echo of his voice amplifying around its corners. She could smell dying fire and taste the nothingness from his lips.

Hermione looked down at his words again and sobbed even harder at the injustice of it all.

" _I'm sorry I couldn't tell you I loved you."_


	16. The Office

 

Hermione stepped off the Hogwarts Express with her trunk and stopped to marvel at the castle. It had been so long since the last time she was able to admire its loving presence without distraction. A faint smile crossed her face as she drank in the sight of where she grew up, where she became herself, where her heart mended and broke.

A gaggle of younger students pushed by her, breaking her imagined reunion.

Forcing herself to move along, she dragged her trunks along with everyone else. Waving to a few fellow students along the way was an odd experience. It felt very immediately apparent how much older and different than them she was now. Sitting in a dormitory room was even more unsettling. The beds were the same, the desks the same, but they had an eerie resonance, as if the way the room operated had been just slightly adjusted to feel out of place for only her.

Ginny reassured her it would pass, but Hermione had a nagging feeling it might not. She was different now and no amount of time would change that. Not wanting to stick around, she left Gryffindor Tower and began to roam around the castle. Her wandering feet took her to places where her mind narrated memories of past events.

She drifted toward the end of the hall where his office once used to be. The door was open; the space completely unoccupied. Of course no one had wanted that particular cursed defense against the dark arts office after Hogwarts was rebuilt. It was not arranged as it had been in her memory; likely due to his successor. His desk was still there, accompanied by the two chairs that they used to sit in, but they were all dusty and empty. The walls were bare, devoid of the books and unusual objects he liked to collect. Hermione tentatively stepped into the empty room, her hand lingering on the doorway like the way she used to hold herself when waiting for his attention before entering.

Picking up the hems of her robes, she softly stepped toward the visitor chair. Sound traveled further without the density of matter clouding it. Her footsteps echoed around its corners in a way that reminded her of being in a cave. Running her fingertips over the curved top of the chair back, she stopped to recall the many times she'd pulled it out and sat down before him. Hermione could almost see the smug amusement of his face when she closed her eyes.

After what felt like forever, she sat down on the dusty seat and set her hands on her knees. The chair creaked a little as she leaned back it in. She kept her eyes closed and imagined that in another version of the world, he was alive and writing at his desk, across from her. In this world, he had not died months ago, and she had not turned away from him when confronted by the difficult and ambiguous nature of truth.

The rhythm of her pulse jumped a little as she looked at him. She could just see the detailed lines around his eyes beginning to tell his age. He lifted his head up from his work and greeted her with a slight twist of his lips. She liked to think it was a smile for her.

"I didn't hear you come in," he said, as he dropped his quill.

Hermione kept her eyes closed and replied lightly, "You looked busy, and I didn't want to get an earful."

"I suppose I ought to feel honored by such thoughtfulness."

Snape rose from his seat, his black robes dragging on the ground as he meandered around the large desk toward her. Keeping her invisible gaze on him, she turned to follow him as he approached her. He held out a hand to her. Not knowing what to do, Hermione sat still and bit her lip. But her longing was too great and she reached out to meet his outstretched hand.

A sharp breath in.

Keeping her eyes shut, she could feel his skin and it was warm as he pulled her upward to her feet. Warm and a bit rough just like how she'd remembered the few times she was able to get close enough. "Are you really here?" she breathed as she clasped his hand tightly with her own.

"What an odd question," he chided.

Feeling overcome, she reached up and wrapped her arms around him. He was so solid within her grasp, like he was real. The fabric of his robes tickled her fingers when she closed her fists around it. Taking a deep inhale against his chest, she could smell the bitterness of his soap and almost hear the light thump of his beating heart. All of it was immensely present, a trick so deceptively believable that she blurted out with a sob, "I missed you. There's so much I want to say."

 _I'm sorry._  But she wasn't supposed to apologize so much.

He stiffened under her arms, and she pulled away slightly to get another look at his face. It was difficult with her eyes closed, his expression like the silhouette through a screen. She couldn't quite make it out. Hermione opened her eyes to get a better look.

Suddenly she was alone. Her arms fell, crossing each other in front of her for there was nothing but air to hold them up. She spun around and glanced through the room. It was just as when she entered. No one but her. It was all in her head after all. But she could have sworn, for a moment, she really did sense him through the walls between fantasy and reality.

Sniffing back the urge to cry, she slumped back into the chair. He would have told her it was stupid to be so sentimental.

She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath.

"Granger?" She heard him from behind her. Had she imagined that too?

When she began to turn, he warned, "Don't."

"What is happening?" she asked in a shaky whisper, more to the empty room than to anything else.

"You shouldn't be here. This isn't right," the voice remarked, but it was different. There was a slight tremble that betrayed conflict.

"I don't care."

"I do," he returned, the edge of his voice melting away, "Don't dwell. You'll waste your life if you do that. I spent a two decades learning this stupidly simple fact. I can't have you making the same mistake. Promise me you will not return."

"But—"

He insisted fiercely, "Promise you will not return."

She felt his hand on her arm and reached up to cover it with her own. It felt so real that she could no longer doubt the validity of his presence. Hermione's eyes flew open and she turned to meeting him. Spinning abruptly, she hoped to catch a glimpse of his echo, but the room was empty as ever; the hand was gone.

"I promise?" she tried, hoping it would bring him back.

Alas, no movement.

It took a few minutes before she gave up and left. As she walked toward where the entire castle had gathered, her hands involuntarily balled up into fists as anger and determination multiplied within her. There was no way she would give up so easily. There was something in that room, something tangible and malleable, some weakness between present truth and future truth. It was not all in her head. She refused to believe it. The Snape that existed in this world was gone, but there were infinite versions of them still out there, living and walking in the planes that paralleled hers. In that office, the pull of their desire toward each other was so strong, it could dissolve logic itself. She felt she had grasped at strands of him. The greatest magic was irrational.

It was then that Hermione decided. She had a singular goal while the world's magical resources were at her fingertips. She would learn as much as she can. And then, when she understood how this unfair and unkind existence worked, she would break her promise and return to the room where she'd left him. She would find him, steal him from another Hermione if she had to. If it took dissolving the boundary between realities, she would do it. There was no reality worth preserving if he was not present.

Love was not to be buried and forgotten, it was to be shared. And hers was for him.

Hermione tightened her grip on her wand as she descended the stairs toward the Great Hall. She would find him.

No force, not time, not death, not even the order of things, could keep her away.

 

-FIN-

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, this concludes part 1 of 2! This is just the logical place to end because the sequel will be very different. Hermione will manage to cross into an alternative world in her quest to find Snape, but to her dismay, she's stuck with a version of him that never loved her. If part 1 is his love letter to her, part 2 is her reply.
> 
> Thank you all so much following and supporting this story. I write as a way to resolve questions about aspects of life in my own head, so it's always a surprise that anyone else wants to read any of it. You all are such a thoughtful bunch that leave such insightful and wonderful comments. I can't say how much it means to me. It is a privilege to have you as readers.
> 
> About this story, I took a 5yr hiatus and the direction really changed during it. I'd originally meant to explore futility, but other things grew on my mind. Time became a central obsession, especially the difference between youth (Hermione) and middle-age (Snape) and the loss of possibility and choice as we grow older. Age is always seen as a barrier and most writers side step it, but I wanted the perspective gap to be what they find inspiring in each other. Two people can cross that divide and talk themselves out of being so different. Part 2, will of course be about something else. We'll explore how people persist in the quiet desperation of the mundane.
> 
> See you soon :)


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